


Albus Potter and the Elixir of Erised

by betts



Series: A Very Thorough History [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Age Difference, Albus Potter is doing his best, Alcohol, Angst, Christmas, Criminal Albus Potter, Disordered Eating, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, Lawyer Draco Malfoy, Legilimency, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magical Drug Use, Mild Daddy Kink, Pining, Rehabilitation, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Sugar Daddy, ambiguous slytherin moral reasoning, inappropriate use of teacups, merciless murder of a nazi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-02-22 20:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 75,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13174830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: After dropping out of Hogwarts, Albus moves to London and deals an addictive potion to Muggles. Now the most wanted wizard in the country, he goes into hiding at Malfoy Manor, enduring terrible withdrawal which renders him powerless in the hands of his best friend's father: Draco Malfoy, the only man willing to help him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [habitatfordeanwinchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/habitatfordeanwinchester/gifts).



> A Christmas gift for Heather, who takes up 97.3% of my whole heart. 
> 
> I am but a lowly Ohioan AU writer. Both canonical writing and Brit-picking are a bit over my head. But I tried. God did I try.
> 
> A note on wizard law: according to the HP wiki, lawyers don't exist! They just don't. Or at least, they didn't during the span of HP, but since this is five years post-Cursed Child, we're going to say the allowance for "appointing a third-party defense" has expanded to the acceptance (but not requirement) of lawyers. 
> 
> Canon up to and including the Epilogue, but not Cursed Child, with the exceptions that Hermione is Minister of Magic and Harry is Head of Magical Law Enforcement. 
> 
> Albus is 19. Everything is very consensual. I know the tags make this look super dark but it's not.

A stitch wove into Albus’ side. He’d never run this fast in his life. He kept his eyes ahead to navigate the cobblestones without tripping, while footsteps quicker than his own echoed behind him, shouts, grunting; thank Merlin no one else was around. It was—what, five in the morning now? Six? He was in a corner of Diagon Alley good wizards didn’t frequent, a place where the alleyways ran so narrow that no sunlight pierced through the overlapping awnings. The locket around his neck swung heavily despite what it carried: his only hope, his irrevocable burden.

He caught sight of an empty shop and pivoted towards it, nearly splintering the frame from the door as he pointed his wand and shouted, “ _Aberto!_ ” A dingy fireplace was nestled in the corner, unused for what looked like centuries, but a toppled pot of Floo powder offered an escape. He fell to his knees, clutching his locket in one shaking hand. He dropped his wand with the other, and grabbed a fistful of Floo powder. One of his pursuers entered—a young Auror probably working directly under his father. Albus recognized him as a man he’d seen at some events he’d been dragged to. At one point he may have known his name—Ernest, he thought, Witt-something, maybe—but now knew him only as something to be feared.

Albus crawled into the fireplace. The Auror was shouting at him: some plea, a willingness to hurt him if he didn’t comply. Two more entered; one of them was James, who was still in training. He made an obvious effort to seem professional, but Albus could see the fear and anxiety behind the facade.

No specific location came to mind, so he threw the powder down and said, “Home!”

As green flames engulfed him, the lead Auror shouted, “ _Crucio!_ ” Agonizing pain ripped through Albus’ body as he was squeezed into nothingness, his entire existence revolving around the locket gripped in his hand. Distantly he knew he was screaming, could feel the sound reverberating through his throat without hearing it. He landed heavily in another fireplace—cold, empty, unused. He rolled out onto the floor and felt like he was still on fire, like red flames instead of green ones had consumed him. He tore open his eyes: tall windows, black drapes, marble floors, vaulted ceilings. He barely recognized it, like he’d only been here in a dream. The room spun and the edges of his vision frizzled white. He heard more footsteps running toward him.

They followed him. They—

The door to the room flung open, but pain dragged him under.

 

⚕

 

He opened his eyes to a window looking out onto an overgrown garden, which was turning brown in the rapidly cooling autumn. The sun was setting and the clouds illuminated a shade of orange he rarely saw in London. He was in a bed, a heavy comforter weighing him down and warming him against the draftiness of the room. As he reached idly for his wand, he remembered—he remembered everything. Merlin, he was fucked. He left his wand behind. The entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement was up his arse. And his—

Panicking, he reached for his locket. He relaxed when he felt it there, a steady presence against his chest. He looked down at himself. He’d been divested of his shoes, but his plain Muggle t-shirt and jeans remained, filthy as they were. After he ran away, he’d sworn off robes, a relatively small defiance all considered, but, being chased, he regretted his lack of discretion. The kid in Diagon Alley dressed as a Muggle, who looked startlingly like the Boy Who Lived—not to mention that his wretched face was on every WANTED poster in a hundred-kilometre radius—was an easy spot.

His entire body ached like all of his bones had been broken and reset. Turning his head was an exhausting endeavor. A goblet of water sat waiting for him beside a wet cloth and a plate of biscuits. The thought of eating nauseated him, but he reached (with a not-insignificant amount of pain) towards the goblet. His throat felt like sand as he drank; water slid down his chin. When it was empty, he pulled it away from his lips and nearly groaned in relief when it refilled itself.  

After three more cupfulls, he set it aside. The room was different than the one he landed in, cozier but with the same grandiose style and furnishings. The view of the garden felt familiar, but last he’d seen it, it had been blooming with flowers. The bed felt familiar too, like he’d slept in it before, not just once but many times.

And then he remembered: the summer he spent with Scorpius seven—no, eight years ago. The two months at Malfoy Manor had been some of the best of his life. No James and his drama taking up everyone’s attention. No Lily alternately calling him cruel names and begging to play with him. No Granger-Weasleys dropping by at all hours and awkward chats with Rose where they pretended to be friends. And best of all, no walking around in public with Harry _fucking_ Potter, stopping every ten seconds so someone could shake his hand and thank him for all he’d done. Albus got the impression Mr Malfoy didn’t even _like_ Albus’ father, though he didn’t say as much. It was in the slight wrinkle of his nose whenever Albus had mentioned him, like he was biting back something cruel. Albus had wanted so badly to say, “I hate him too,” but stayed silent in case he was wrong, in case Mr Malfoy went to the Ministry the next day and told on him. At the time, hating his father was his biggest secret; he felt like the only wizard in the world who didn’t think Harry Potter was all that special.

That summer, he and Scorpius got to know each other better than they had their whole first year at school. They woke up together and had breakfast together and ran around the grounds together. They stayed up talking until all hours, huddled under covers with the tips of their wands alight, knowing Mr Malfoy was all the way across the Manor with a nightcap, too exhausted from his day’s work to police their fun. It was the first time Albus had ever felt free, had ever felt that he was his own person and not just an unnecessary appendage of supposedly the greatest wizard who ever lived.

The chamber door swung open, but Albus had to lean over to see the small figure approaching him.

“Good evening, Albus Potter,” the rickety house elf said. She was wearing a purple dress with daisies on it and a little top hat that sat crooked on her bulbous head. A tray wobbled in her hands. “Griselda was mighty surprised to see you, she was. Look at you, so big now!” She slid the tray on the bedside table. “Soup!” she exclaimed. “Soup for big little Potter.”

“I’m not hungry,” Albus said.

Griselda made a irritated sound in her throat. “Master says to feed big little Potter. Master says big little Potter looks roughed-up bad.”

“Do I?” He self-consciously raised a hand to his hair, which was greasy and tangled.

“Aye, big little Potter looked better last Griselda saw him.”

“It’s been a few years.” Reluctantly, Albus picked up the bowl of soup. It was a murky greenish-yellow color, and a hunk of crusty bread sat on the plate underneath it. He dipped the bread in the soup and took a large bite. It tasted fine, but he nearly retched. It had been three days or so since he’d last eaten. Griselda stared at him without blinking, so he continued chewing and swallowed obligingly. He wondered if Mr Malfoy insisted she watch him eat.

As casually as he could manage, he asked, “Did you find me, or did...someone else?”

“Aye,” Griselda replied. “Master brought you up and cleaned you up and healed you up!”

Albus had trouble imagining the Mr Malfoy of his childhood carrying him to the bedroom, tending to his wounds. Terror pooled in his gut at the thought that perhaps Mr Malfoy had called Albus’ father and the Magical Law Enforcement squad was on their way to get him. Send him to Azkaban, maybe, if his father wouldn’t pull any strings for him. At this point, Albus wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. How many times must a boy get in trouble before he has to face the consequences? Then again, he thought, his father certainly never had to.

He couldn’t find a way to ask politely if he were on the brink of imminent peril, but thankfully Griselda added, “Master’ll be up soon. Busy busy busy man! Big little Potter interrupting quite a lot!”

Albus felt suddenly very guilty and very sad—guilty that he had brought his special brand of chaos into the home of a man who had shown him nothing but kindness; sad that the safest place he had ever felt he wasn’t actually welcome in, was a place he had only spent two meager months in, and that Mr Malfoy probably didn’t even remember it, the happiest months of Albus’ whole life.

“Is Scorpius still…” he began, unable to conjure the words to ask.

Griselda nodded slowly. “Little Master far away in training. Tanzania! Griselda can firecall him if—”

“No!” Albus interrupted, nearly toppling over the soup in his lap. “I mean,” he corrected, “I won’t be staying long. No need to ruffle his feathers.”

“Aye, no ruffling!” Griselda agreed.

They were silent as Albus choked down the remainder of his soup and bread. Griselda’s gaze was unnerving, but he knew the faster he ate, the more quickly she would leave, the sooner he could sneak out. When the bowl was half empty and the bread gone, he brought it to his lips and drank the rest, trying not to taste it or think about how much he wanted to puke. He handed the bowl back to Griselda and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Terrible manners, big little Potter!” Griselda said with a following _tsk_.

“Sorry,” he replied with a wavering smile. “Been a long day.” A long year, really. He wouldn’t say he missed Hogwarts, but it did offer him a certain amount of structure that he apparently needed in order not to run off the rails. McGonagall’s ire and losing house points for wandering the corridors at night was one thing; Aurors throwing the Cruciatus Curse at him was another. He may have underestimated the amount of trouble he was in.

Griselda took the tray and hobbled out. The room was dark now, and sconces on the walls slowly lit in pace with the waning light. As soon as he heard her tiny footsteps recede, he threw off the covers and climbed out of bed. The moment he was up, blood rushed to his head and his knees crumpled underneath him. He fell in a graceless heap of limbs, narrowly avoiding knocking his head against the bedside table. Fuck, _fuck_ , he wished he had his wand. The number of wandless spells he knew was downright pitiful.

He got to his knees and crawled around the bed toward the window. The room spun as he moved, his heart pounded, and he could feel the stirrings of his soup coming back up. He reached the window and pulled himself up to the sill, climbing onto it and resting his cheek against the cool glass while he caught his breath. The latch was high above him; he reached up as far as he could and scrabbled at the iron with the tips of his fingers.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, making exactly zero headway.

“Leaving so soon?”

He whipped his head around and slid off the windowsill back onto the floor. Just over the mattress he could see familiar blonde hair—more platinum than Scorpius’ bronzy yellow, more rigidly styled than his messy curls. Mr Malfoy slowly circled the bed, expression inscrutable.

Albus lost all capacity to speak. His head was spinning and his body was rebelling against movement.

“You wouldn’t want to leave without this, would you?” Mr Malfoy squatted down to Albus’ level and held up a small potion bottle, reflective silver swirling inside.

Albus quickly reached for his pocket. It was empty. He reached for his other. Also empty.

“I—” he started. “You don’t—”

“Know what it is?” Mr Malfoy huffed a laugh. “Might it have something to do with your face being plastered all over the bloody country? Can’t open the _Prophet_ without seeing a Potter.”

His words sounded cruel, but something in his eyes remained curious and light. He didn’t seem angry with Albus; he actually sounded a bit...concerned.

“I can explain,” Albus said.

“You can explain why I shouldn’t owl your father and take the reward money?”

Albus gathered together every bit of charm he’d learned from Scorpius over the years. The first rule of thumb, he explained once, was to throw people off their guard. “You don’t need the money, for one.”

Mr Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up. Albus only now realized that Scorpius probably got all of his tricks from his father, and maybe they wouldn’t work on him in turn.

“Two—” He searched his addled brain for anything helpful. “You hate my father, don’t you?”

“I don’t _hate_ him,” Mr Malfoy said, but his tone belied the words. “We’ve just never got on. And we have a—sordid history, you could say.”

“Okay, well, but—you can understand, then, can’t you, how stubborn he is, how he blows things out of proportion—”

“This seems a little severe, even for him.”

“You don’t know my side of it. You don’t know what that—” He tipped his head toward the potion bottle still in Mr Malfoy’s grip. “—even is. But I need you to give it to me. I—I need it. Badly.”

Mr Malfoy lifted the bottle up to the light and shook it. Absently he said, “Must admit, I’m terribly curious.”

“I’m innocent, I swear, and my father wants to throw me in Azkaban.”

Mr Malfoy turned his attention back to Albus, a slow smile creeping across his face. “I don’t believe either of those things for a second.”

“Okay, fine, you don’t have to, but if you give me that bottle, and let me leave now, no one has to know I was here. You won’t get in trouble with the Ministry. You can pretend it never happened.”

Mr Malfoy stood back up. With a flick of his wand, Albus lifted off the floor, weightless, and floated to the bed, where Mr Malfoy swiped his wand again and Albus fell onto the mattress.

Face down, body wracking with pain, a lump rose in his throat and his chin began to wobble. He brought his hand up and bunched the sheets in his fist, obscuring his face the best he could manage, hoping Mr Malfoy wouldn’t see him cry. This was nothing compared to the pain he’d be in if he couldn’t get that bottle back.

When Mr Malfoy spoke again, his voice was soft: “You roll into my Floo first thing in the morning coming off a Cruciatus Curse, half-starved, filthy and bleeding, no wand, on the run from both the law _and_ your father, who is, technically, the law itself. And you’ve got this potion in your pocket which likely holds the key to your predicament.” He sat down on the edge of the bed—Albus couldn’t see him but he could feel the dip, could feel the heat of his skin where his hand rested beside Albus’ arm. “You’ve put me in a bit of a bind, Potter. On one hand, you’re the most wanted wizard since the Dark Lord, and I’ve really had enough wanted wizards in my house. On the other, you’re my son’s best friend. Does he know anything about this?”

Albus didn’t answer. He couldn’t figure out what Mr Malfoy wanted to hear.

“I suppose we could always call him—”

“No,” Albus begged, dragging himself upright, tears shamefully rolling down his face, “please. He doesn’t know anything. I haven’t spoken to him since—”

“Your seventeenth birthday, I know. I didn't hear the end of it. According to him, you up and left in the middle of the night. Broke his heart, you know.”

“I know." He hadn't gone a day without thinking about Scorpius and wishing they'd left Hogwarts together.

Albus could see the bottle stopper peeking out of Mr Malfoy’s hand. If he had his wand, if he were stronger, he could knock Mr Malfoy unconscious and take it and run…

Merlin, he thought, it was already beginning.

Mr Malfoy took a deep breath. “As much as your father and I fought, I can’t say I didn’t learn from him. Always willing to fix a bird with a broken wing, even if that bird was wanted by the entire Ministry. More importantly, I think my son—bleeding heart he is, he gets that from his mum—would be aghast to know I’d thrown you to the same wolves that tossed an Unspeakable Curse at you.”

“I have more of a chance on the run with that bottle in hand than I do staying here without it.”

That smile again—manic, almost, like Mr Malfoy was enjoying this. “Why don’t we make a deal. You tell me what’s in this bottle _and_ what you’ve done to turn the Ministry on its end, and I’ll give it back to you.”

Albus spouted the first thing that came to mind: “It’s Invigorating Draught. That’s all, I swear.”

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say that?” Mr Malfoy pulled the stopper on the potion bottle. “Feeling a bit tired myself. Long day, you know, teenage boys showing up, writhing in agony in my drawing room.”

He lifted the bottle, but before it could meet his lips, Albus said, “Stop!”

Mr Malfoy lowered it, a smug look on his face. “Albus Severus Potter, were you _lying_?”

Albus wiped the tears from his face with the flat of his hand. He felt like a child.

“Never thought the spawn of the great Harry Potter would be a liar _and_ a criminal. Maybe one, or the other, but both? Makes me wonder if you’re even his son.”

Albus wanted to scream, but instead he put his face into his hands and bit back the sob lodged in his chest. He wasn’t good enough to be Harry Potter’s son. He would never be good enough. Everything hurt. He’d been hurting for so long; he just wanted to rest, wanted the whole thing to be over with. He wished he’d never found the mirror, never brewed the potion, never ran away. Muffled, he said, “I can’t tell you, Mr Malfoy. I can’t. You have to understand.”

A warm hand rested on his arm. “Can you at least tell me how you got here?”

He could feel his face flush and couldn’t meet Mr Malfoy’s eyes. He sniffled and muttered, “I Floo’d home.” Then, more clearly, he added, “I didn’t know where to go, so I—I said ‘home’ and this is where it brought me.”

After a long, silent moment, he finally dared a glance at Mr Malfoy, who was inspecting him with a kind of open curiosity no one had ever directed at him before. Like Mr Malfoy could actually see him, not as Scorpius’ best friend or Harry Potter’s son, but as Albus, totally mediocre wizard who couldn’t stay out of trouble if he tried.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

Mr Malfoy squeezed his arm gently, and said with surprising tenderness, “Well, you did, and there’s no going back.” He stood; Albus missed the warmth of his hand. It was the first time anyone had touched him kindly in months. Maybe all year. “We have a deal. I’ll be keeping this until you’re ready to talk to me.”

Albus looked up at him and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “And if I don’t?”

“It'll stay safe with me, and so will you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Draco dripped melted wax onto an envelope and stamped it with a seal. He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the clock—well past midnight. It really had been a long day. Tomorrow would be too, and the next, and the next, until this case was won. Then there was the matter of the boy, of course, and Draco hadn’t a clue what to do about it, or the potion, which he had hidden in a desk drawer. He’d have to lock it up somewhere before bed. If Potter was as eager to get this as he let on, he’d be willing to turn the house over for it. Then again, he was a compulsive liar; his desperation could be feigned.

But there had always been something earnest in his face that kept Draco wondering what the truth was. That was the mark of a good liar: always a seed of truth in the lie.  

He opened the drawer, picked up the bottle, and lifted it to the lamplight. Completely opaque. Viscous. Reflective silver—his face looked back at him, warped around the small bottle. Merlin, he looked haggard. It unnerved him that he had never seen a potion like this; it was so rare he ever saw something he hadn’t seen before. No more firsts for men his age. Every day was an exact repeat of the last. At least the Potter boy brought an end to that. For now.

After a moment’s deliberation, he summoned _Pepper Pilfrey’s Potions ‘Pendium_ to his desk. He opened it to the first page, pointed his wand under the words SORT BY and said, “Colour.”

The book glowed pink, shivered, and went back to normal. Draco flipped to the Si pages. Silver, gaseous, he read. No. Silver, glittering. No. Silver, translucent. No. He flipped a few pages back to Re. There was only one entry: Reflective, dull.

“No,” he said aloud to it. The book shuddered sadly like it had been reprimanded. He shut it and fell back into his chair.

“What _are_ you?” he asked the potion, as if it might answer him. It did not.

He took a long breath. Well, he thought, unstopping the bottle, he was nothing if not a Malfoy, and sometimes that meant doing stupid things to better understand a Potter.

He brought it to his lips, closed his eyes, and took the smallest sip he could manage. He tried not to taste it, though he found it wasn’t bad: metallic, but otherwise blandly sweet like a sucking on a sugar cube.

He stoppered the bottle again and set it down. Nothing happened.

He slouched in his chair and crossed his hands over his stomach. Give it a moment, he told himself. He stared at the clock again and listened as the seconds ticked by. Still nothing.

After a couple minutes, he did get something of a second wind. He sat up straight and pulled a scroll of parchment toward him from the pile. It was an old letter, evidence gathered by his partner Adalene. Draco had hundreds to wade through to build the defence. Ms Boddington’s tiny, messy script and egregious spelling errors always gave him a headache after just a few minutes’ reading. He made it to the end of the letter (useless for the case) without having to squint and bring the parchment close to his eyes.

Perhaps the potion was just an Invigorating Draught after all. He’d never seen it that colour, but kids these days—who knew, maybe Potter had mixed a few potions together, Elixir of Euphoria perhaps. It wasn’t out of the question. Draco _did_ feel like a weight was lifting from his shoulders that he hadn’t noticed it was there. It was only a minor shift in mood, but welcome nonetheless. He set the parchment aside and found he was smiling for some reason. He covered his mouth with his hand even though there was no one around to see him. What was he happy about? It didn’t make sense.

Albus Potter had called the manor _home_. Draco couldn’t believe it. He _shouldn’t_ believe it; he had no reason to believe anything that came out of the boy’s mouth. And yet, he wanted to, badly, for a reason he couldn’t place. Something about the idea of being a better father to Potter’s child than Potter himself. It was thrilling. It made him feel...important.

A knock at the door of his study startled him. Griselda didn’t knock, she just obnoxiously Apparated everywhere. It must be—

“Potter?” he called.

“It’s me, Mr Malfoy. May I come in?”

“You may.” He stuffed the potion bottle back in the drawer and closed it.

The door opened and Albus entered with a tray in his hands, wearing—

_Merlin’s beard._

—barely anything. A pair of tight black pants. Nothing else. He was leanly muscled and didn’t look like he was starving at all. The soup must have really done a number. He looked better than he had just a few hours ago. His hair—as wild as his father’s, but long and tucked behind his ears—was clean. Soft-looking. The bags under his eyes were gone. He appeared just as he had the last time Draco saw him at King’s Cross before his seventh year. Scorpius preferred Draco seeing him off at Platform 9 ¾ even though he was old enough to go by himself. Albus, as always, had looked sullen and angry, head bowed, standing as far away from his family as he could manage while they ignored him. It was like they had finally given up on him. Something about the image made Draco’s chest hurt.

But now, he looked healthy. And happy. He was even smiling.

“What are you…” Draco began. His voice sounded far away from himself.

Albus set the tray down on the only empty corner of Draco’s desk. “Thought you might like something to drink. It’s been a long day.” He passed over a tumbler of purplish drink with fizz around the edges.

Draco took it and smelled it. “This is a Beetle Berry Fizzy Whisky.” Beetle Berry Whisky with club soda and a twist of lime. He did have all the ingredients for it, he supposed. It wasn’t out of the question for Albus to have found them.

“Mhm,” Albus said, taking his own from the tray. “Your favorite. Do you mind if I sit?”

There was nowhere to sit, but Draco found himself saying, “All right.” Had _Witch Weekly_ published it at some point? Had Scorpius told him? He didn’t think anyone knew his favorite cocktail. He didn’t think anyone cared. Astoria didn’t even know how he liked his tea.

Albus took a seat on Draco’s lap, draping himself easily across him as if they’d done this dozens of times before. The chair was big enough and he twisted in such a way that they were still facing each other, sort of, all of Albus’ weight on one of Draco’s thighs, his arm across Draco’s shoulders. The boy wasn’t very heavy despite his height, but his body ran incredibly hot. And he smelled—good. Very good. Like he had doused himself in Amortentia. It was making Draco light-headed.

Draco kept the hand that wasn’t clutching his drink on the arm rest, avoiding Albus’ gaze. He laughed nervously. “This is—you shouldn’t be—”

“What are you working on?” Albus asked. He took a sip of his drink. His eyes were just as bright as his father’s, but on the blue side of green. Teal, almost. Beautiful.

“Just a case,” Draco said. He took a long gulp from his drink and tried to relax.

“What kinda case?”

“A big one. For Doris Boddington. I won’t bore you with details.”

Albus played with a few strands of Draco’s hair. “Nothing about you is boring.”

The attention flustered him. Against his better judgement, he found himself saying, “Doris Boddington would like to legally marry her boyfriend, a merman named Tristan. It’s a bit of a mess because she’s also vying for approval to experiment with body modification so she can live permanently in the sea and eventually master human-merman reproduction, and it’s—well, there’s a lot of red tape. Merpeople have their own legal jurisdiction, so I’m more or less a liaison between two courts. I’m going through their correspondence to provide evidence that they are, in fact, in love, and not just conspiring to enter a new species of magical being into the world for, I don’t know, nefarious reasons. The Wizengamot has gotten so paranoid since the war. Let them have their little family, for Merlin’s sake. It’s not the Ministry’s bloody business if a woman wants to fuck a fish.”

Albus made a thoughtful noise. “That sounds frustrating.”

“It _is_ ,” Draco agreed. It felt good to talk about it. Not that the case was a particular secret, he just didn’t know anyone willing to listen. Somehow during the rant, Draco’s hand managed to slip from the armrest and curl around Albus’ hip.

Now Albus was trailing a finger over the shell of Draco’s ear. Such a light touch—it made him shiver, made his whole body roil with pleasure. He tried not to let it show.

“Do you want to talk more about it?” Albus asked. “Maybe I can help.”

“No, I’m—I think I need to be done for the day.” Perhaps it was the drink, or the potion, but he hadn’t felt this relaxed in _years_. And even though there was an overgrown boy—his son’s best friend, Harry Potter’s middle child—in his lap, he was incredibly comfortable.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Albus asked.

“Of course,” Draco replied. “King’s Cross, your first year. I overheard you asking your father what would happen if you got sorted into Slytherin.” He found himself smiling again. “And look what happened.”

“That’s not when we met, though. I didn’t even know who you were then,” Albus corrected playfully, trailing his finger down Draco’s jaw. His mouth was so close Draco could feel his breath against his skin. “It was when I came to stay with you, remember?”

Draco made a thoughtful noise in his throat. “I do remember. Scorpius had been telling me about you all year. He said—” He stopped, pursing his lips shut. Why was he still talking? He hadn’t talked this much outside of court in ages.

“He said what?”

“He said you were the saddest boy he’d ever met. I didn’t believe that. No son of Harry Potter’s could possibly be sad. But then, he told me—of course Harry Potter’s child would be sad. How could you ever live up to him? That was when I knew we had something in common, and when Scorp came home for the summer—” He stopped again. This was too embarrassing to admit.

“Tell me,” Albus said softly.

Draco just couldn’t seem to shut up. “Astoria and I had separated by that point, and we agreed to trade off summers with Scorpius. I knew he preferred to stay with her. She always had guests coming and going, lots of people to see, toys to play with, things to do. I suggested he invite a friend to stay with us, knowing surely he’d pick you, but he was shy about it. He said he did want to invite someone but I wouldn’t like it. Albus Potter, he said. He wanted to invite Albus Potter.”

Albus leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss below Draco’s ear, then whispered, “And what did you say?”

“I told him—” Draco’s voice caught as Albus continued trailing small kisses down his neck. “I told him of course he could invite you.”

“Then what happened?”

“Your father said yes for some reason. I didn’t think he would, but maybe he thought it might be good for you— _fuck_.” Albus nibbled at his earlobe, sucked it between his teeth. “—good for you too. I liked it, when you were here. You were sharp. Sharper than I think anyone gave you credit for, but in a way the goodie-goods at Hogwarts never notice. Cunning. Determined, driven, as long as it’s for something you want. I appreciated that about you, even if no one else did. I thought—if only someone would work _with_ you instead of against you, you could be great— _Merlin_ , Potter, your  _mouth_.”

Albus was flat-out snogging his neck now. Draco hadn’t had a hickey since fifth year; he’d have to wear a scarf tomorrow. He clutched Albus’ hip, sweaty fingers digging into him while his other hand was gripping the glass so tightly he thought it might shatter. And he was hard, so hard, he forgot his body could feel like this. He’d been so devoted to his work for so long, sex was off the table. He was a middle-aged bloke who still woke up screaming sometimes, still saw the Dark Lord in the corner of his vision like a spectre that wouldn’t die. Who would want to have sex with him?

Albus fucking Potter, apparently.

“I’ve wanted you this whole time,” Albus said, as if reading Draco’s mind. “I want to be close to you, however you’ll have me. So close I become part of you. I want to be yours, to be owned by you.”

At this, Draco downed the rest of his drink to keep himself from moaning. He’d never come in his pants before, but it was a near thing, Albus shifting in his lap, telling him these—

Lies, he told himself. Surely they were lies.

Albus set his drink on the desk and took Draco’s to do the same. When he came back, he tilted Draco’s chin toward him and kissed him. Here his will shattered: he took Albus’ throat in his hand and kissed him back, squeezing lightly, pulling their bodies closer. Albus was a bratty kisser, rough, biting constantly while little desperate sounds escaped him.

Albus broke away, panting, and slid down to kneel between Draco’s knees, parting his robes as he went, tugging at the button of his trousers. He looked up, lips all swollen and wet, and asked, “May I?”

“Yes,” Draco breathed, startled to see his hand making its way to the crown of Albus’ head, threading his fingers in his hair and tugging him closer.

Albus made quick work of pulling Draco’s cock out, thin strong fingers tugging at him while he marveled at it, like he’d never seen a dick before. Or, Draco guessed, a dick that size before.

“Merlin,” Albus whispered, and leaned forward, breath hot against the tip—

Draco’s eyes shot open. His face was pressed against his desk, a puddle of drool under his chin. He sat up straight and a piece of parchment was stuck to his temple. He pulled it off and slammed it down. No drinks on the table. No Potter between his knees. Even his robes were closed. The only evidence of what had happened was his aching erection.

“Fuck!” He stood, grabbing the closest item in reach, his ink bottle, and threw it against the wall where it shattered in a spray of black.

He slumped back down, face in his hands. Tears sprung to his eyes as he clenched his teeth together. The potion. The fucking _potion_. It stood innocently at the corner of his desk. He picked it up, hand trembling. You couldn’t even tell he’d taken a sip. It was less than a sip, really, just a drop on his tongue, and it had conjured... _that_. That dream, or vision, or whatever it was.

Already he wanted more. No, _needed_ more. Needed Albus back on his knees, his sweet desperation, his devious expression. His attention, admiration, adoration. Draco had never felt like that before. Astoria had been nearly an arranged marriage. Sex with her had the same emotional closeness as a chat about the weather over afternoon tea. No one had ever, _ever_ looked at him the way Albus had. Like he was important. Like he was worth looking at, listening to, touching.

He unstoppered the bottle again. Just one more go, he thought. Then he’d lock it up and leave it behind him.

He brought the bottle to his lips and closed his eyes.

Then he paused. He knew he was a weak man. He had always been weak. Couldn’t stand against his family when it mattered most. Couldn’t kill Dumbledore. He was just a puppet. Even now, he allowed clients to boss him around, defended accused wizards who had done atrocious misdeeds.

But Albus didn’t know any of that. He thought Draco was a good man, a strong man. He had trusted him in a moment of intense peril. He considered the Manor his home.

Draco used every bit of his self-control to pull the bottle away and push the stopper back in. He took his wand and opened the lower-most drawer of his desk, put the bottle away, and muttered an incantation to lock it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s/o to Shape of Water for inspiring the Boddington Case!


	3. Chapter 3

Albus wiggled his toes against the marble floor, clutching the edge of the mattress as he debated whether he was strong enough to stand. He needed a shower, badly, and he could feel the ache at his core that meant he needed to eat again. Griselda had left a cup of coffee by the bed with a plate of toast. Both were cold. He must have slept until mid-afternoon, guessing by the sunlight. He slid off the mattress, still holding onto it for balance. His knees didn’t give out this time. Blood didn’t rush to his head. Yet he had a weak feeling, like a black hole ready to devour him from the inside.

He took a step. He wobbled. He let go of the bed and took another. Just a few more until the threshold to the en suite toilet. At this point he couldn’t tell his physical symptoms apart: was it the side effects of the Cruciatus Curse, the months of near-starvation and total disregard for his body, the beatings, or the withdrawal? Or all of the above?

The only thing he knew was that it would get much, much worse before it got better. It may even kill him. Part of him wished he’d never invented the stuff; the other part didn’t know who he was without it.

He made it to the loo. Thankfully with each step he took, he felt stronger rather than weaker. A toothbrush sat beside the sink, clean towels on a shelf, and a pile of what looked to be Scorpius’ most informal attire. Though he knew Griselda had likely set these out for him, he let himself imagine it had been Mr Malfoy. Mr Malfoy in Scorpius’ wardrobe, picking out clothes for Albus to wear. Mr Malfoy sneaking through the bedroom, not wanting to wake him. Mr Malfoy stopping on his way back out to glance at him, see that he was still here, still alive, still breathing. Lingering, perhaps, a moment too long.

Just a sip, Albus thought. One sip and that fantasy could be a reality.

He looked at himself in the mirror, though he didn’t want to. He liked his other mirror better. In this one, it showed him as he really was: his hair was too long, chin too scruffy. The bags under his eyes made him look ancient. There was a cut above his brow which had been bandaged—had Mr Malfoy done this? Or was it something from before he couldn’t remember? He reached up and pulled it off.

His collar bones stuck out from under his shirt, which he pulled off to find his ribs jutting out too. The locket hung around his neck, glinting beautifully against his disgusting form. Bruises peppered his skin. He turned around and saw the knobs of his spine, more bruising. His elbows were scabbed over like a child who had taken a tumble. He was nearly identical to his father, if his father had chosen a wrong turn somewhere down the line and continued making wrong turns thereafter. It occurred to him that he couldn’t remember most of the past year. Rather, he could, but very little of it was real. Oh, the things he did. The adventures he had. The power he took. Reality couldn’t hold a candle to Erised.

He showered, shaved, dressed, combed his hair and tied it back. Though he and Scorpius had been the same size just a year ago, the shirt and trousers were too big for him now. He took the belt from his dirty pair of jeans and slipped it through the loops. He had punctured a new hole in the leather a week ago.

It was dangerous, but he wandered outside the bedroom, walking slowly to listen for any sign of movement. Just because Mr Malfoy wasn’t going to owl his father didn’t mean someone else wouldn’t, and it wasn’t as if Albus was particularly difficult to recognize. His wanted posters featured a photograph his mother had taken of him in which he was rolling his eyes. In printed form, he continued rolling his eyes, plus stuck out his tongue and flipped off walkers-by. Sometimes he played air guitar. It was...unflattering, to say the least. Last he saw, the reward for his capture was up to ten thousand galleons.

He reached the end of the hallway and heard voices, so he pressed himself against the wall to listen. He compulsively went for his wand, but it wasn’t there, so he clenched his hand into a fist instead.

“Ada, no,” he could hear Mr Malfoy saying, “you are not purchasing Gillyweed just to confer with the Elder Mer-Council. When we’re ready, we’ll—I don’t know, meet on shore or something. I’m not defending Doris Boddington under-fucking-water.”

“It is their custom,” Ada replied. She had a thick accent Albus didn’t recognize, spoke slowly, and her voice sounded like bells. “We must be respectful of their culture.”

Albus glanced around the corner. Mr Malfoy and Ada were standing in the foyer. Ada was...Merlin, _gorgeous_. Black hair tied up neatly, high cheekbones, red lipstick. He could barely blink for fear of losing the visage for even an instant. She could have been any age, he guessed; her face said twenties but her professional attire and rigid posture said older.

An ugly shade of green crept up his spine. He knew Mr Malfoy had separated from Scorpius’ mum ages ago, but he didn’t think—he _assumed_ Mr Malfoy preferred—it was just something about the way he held himself.

Of course a man as stunning and rich and powerful and smart as Mr Malfoy would have a partner to match. It was stupid of Albus to think—

Well. It was stupid for Albus to have any faith in reality when the alternative was much more reliable.

Mr Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll think about it.”

“I know you will.” Ada reached out and hugged him, kissed him on both cheeks, and when she pulled away, she held him there, their touch casual, intimate. “I will see you in the morning, yes? Breakfast with—”

“Mr Jenkins, consultation, I know. Have I told you recently how amazing you are?”

At this she reached up and cupped his face in her hand. “Yes, but it is always good to hear again.”

“You are—” He took her hand from his cheek and kissed the back of it, looking into her eyes as he did so. “—amazing.”

She smiled and Albus thought he might die. He nearly stepped out from his shadowy corner just to be closer to it, to her.

Mr Malfoy opened the front door to see her off. The moment the door had closed behind her, Griselda apparated into the foyer and said, “Master’s lunch is getting cold!”

Mr Malfoy wore a button-down black shirt and trousers, a grey tie around his neck that matched his eyes. It had nearly the same effect on Albus that Ada had.

“Big little Potter come for lunch too!” Griselda added.

Mr Malfoy spun around. Albus took a step out from the shadows, hands in his pockets.

“How long have you been there?” Mr Malfoy demanded.

Albus shrugged. “Just a minute.”

“Someone could have seen you. How have you managed in the wild this long?”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Griselda said, “Now!” and snapped her fingers. A nauseating twist and they were at the dining table, Mr Malfoy seated across from him, steaming plates of some kind of pasta in front of them.

Mr Malfoy’s lips were pursed as he took his napkin and laid it in his lap. Tersely, he said, “You’re up and about at least. Ready to talk?”

“No.” He didn’t bother putting his napkin in his lap before digging in.

“Mind your manners, Potter. This is a dining table, not some filthy pub.”

With a sardonic flourish, Albus laid the napkin in his lap. “So who is she? And why is she...like that?” He didn’t know how else to describe it. It was a shot in the dark that his attraction was some magical force and not a sudden interest in women.

“Adalene, my partner. She’s Half-Veela,” Mr Malfoy said.

“Oh.” _Partner_. Albus ignored the ugly feeling in his gut.

They were silent as they ate. Albus was no Legilimens but based on the lack of eye contact and yesterday’s concern, Mr Malfoy seemed like he was in a bad mood. Eventually he took the _Prophet_ from beside his plate and opened it, effectively putting a wall between them. Albus’ picture took up the entire back page. The photograph mimed picking his nose and flicking a bogey at Albus.

To get Mr Malfoy’s attention again, he said, “So she’s your...partner.”

Mr Malfoy paused, then folded the paper down and looked at him. “Yes. Why does it matter?”

“You just seemed close is all.”

“I haven’t told her about you, if that’s your concern.”

“No—well, sure, that’s it.” Albus choked down another bite. He was making slow progress. The pasta seemed to reappear like his water yesterday. “Does Scorpius know?”

“About Ada? Of course. It’s not a secret.”

Why hadn’t Scorpius told him? Then again, why would he? His father’s love life was none of Albus’ business. If he didn’t feel like eating before, he definitely didn’t feel like eating now.

A sudden wave of pain overtook him, like the Cruciatus Curse all over again. His organs felt like they were trying to escape. The floor spun. He needed to lie down. He needed more Erised. He needed to scratch the insatiable itch that had taken over his entire body.  

Mr Malfoy turned his attention back to the paper. Absently he said, “So, the potion.”

Albus remained silent, clutching his fork and willing himself to seem normal.

“You invented it, did you?” Mr Malfoy asked.

Albus was thankful for the newspaper separating them, though the waver in his voice gave him away. “How did you know that?”

“Looked it up in the dictionary. Rather, couldn’t find it in the dictionary. You know I have something of a talent with potions. Surely I could help you with your—” He folded the paper back down and glared at him. “—symptoms. An antidote, perhaps.”

“It’s not a poison that needs an antidote,” Albus explained. He twisted his napkin in his hands. “It’s not even potion-making, technically. Well, it sort of is. It’s…”

When he didn’t continue, Mr Malfoy said, “Go on.”

“Alchemy.”

Mr Malfoy stared at him, expression trained into complacency despite the surprise behind his eyes.

“Scorpius didn’t tell me you were taking alchemy.”

“I didn’t. I taught myself.”

“You taught...yourself...alchemy.” At last Mr Malfoy folded the paper again and set it back on the table. “How?”

“I stole books from the restricted section.”

Mr Malfoy gaped. “It’s a _library_. You can _borrow them_.”

“Not from the restricted section.”

“There is a _reason_ they’re restricted. You’re not supposed to brew dangerously addictive potions that make you trip balls over your darkest whims.”

It was Albus’ turn to gape. “You took some.”

Mr Malfoy reeled like he hadn’t meant to say that. “I—no, of course not, it was a guess—”

“What did you see?” Albus asked.

“Nothing.” A ruddy flush crept up Mr Malfoy’s neck, a stark contrast to his porcelain skin. “I didn’t see anything. It didn’t work on me.”

“Bullshit. Tell me.”

Mr Malfoy’s fluster turned to furious coldness. “You will not give me orders in my own house, Potter. You come here uninvited, half-dead, the most dangerous bloody substance in your pocket since the Philosopher’s Stone. You’ve got a mountain of galleons over your head, the whole Ministry is up your arse, and you won’t even tell me _what you did_. I take back what I said. You’re more Potter than Potter himself.”

Albus threw his napkin on the table and stood.

“Where are you going?” Mr Malfoy demanded.

“Not very far, since I’m fucking _trapped here_ ,” Albus said, and stormed out with as much dignity as he could manage, though his legs could barely carry him.


	4. Chapter 4

An earth-shattering scream woke Draco. On impulse, he grabbed his wand from his bedside table and sat up, heart racing, wondering if the noise had come from him, or if it was just a dream, or one of the portraits perhaps, or—

 _Albus_.

He threw off the covers and ran toward the guest bedroom in the opposite wing of the Manor, disregarding that he was only wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms, _Lumos_ guiding him along. Scenarios rushed through his head: the Aurors who had tortured Albus had broken in, or worse, Potter Senior. It wasn’t beyond him to break the law to retrieve his criminal son. A series of spells and curses Draco hadn’t used in decades came back to him, ready to throw the worst at whoever was there. How dare they break into his home; how dare they hurt his—

His _ward_.

At last Draco made it to the bedroom, where he threw open the door. Albus was sitting upright, rocking back and forth, weeping into his hands.

Draco looked around, expecting to find half the Ministry, but the room was empty. He trained his gaze back to Albus and took a hesitant step closer, lit wand still raised. “Potter?”

“I’m sorry,” Albus said, though his voice was so quiet Draco could barely hear him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Are you...all right?” The question felt stupid given the circumstances. He took another step closer.

Albus nodded. Then he paused and shook his head.

Now Draco was standing beside the bed, well enough to see Albus by the light of the moon. He cast _Nox_ and his wand went dark, then he placed a tentative hand on Albus’ bony shoulder; his entire body was trembling. “What happened?”

Albus curled away from him and wiped his eyes. “Nothing. Just a nightmare.”

Draco perched at the edge of the mattress, slowly as if he might run when met with any sudden movements. It occurred to him, now that he was completely awake, that this could have been a trap of some kind. Men in the throes of desperation were capable of atrocity, he knew from experience. Perhaps Albus was waiting for him to set down his wand, only to grab it up and kill him with it. It seemed dramatic, but given the boy’s lineage, not entirely out of the question.

“Would you like to...talk about it?” Draco asked.

Albus shook his head. When Scorpius had nightmares, he always wanted to chat them out, then listen as Draco told him none of what he dreamed was possible. It was a lie, though. He never wanted his son to know the horrible things that existed, the things Draco had once played a hand in, all of which were far worse than anything Scorpius’ mind could conceive.

Potter, though…

They may be evenly matched in iniquity.

“Some Calming Draught then?” Draco added.

“I’d rather have my Erised,” Albus muttered. On the plus side, he’d stopped crying.

Draco was rubbing what he hoped to be soothing circles on his back. “Is that what you’ve been calling it? ‘Desire’ backwards? I was expecting something more clever.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

Albus’ lip trembled and he ducked his head. “I can’t.”

“We’ve established I’m not going to rat you out.”

“It’s not that. It’s...bad, what I’ve done.”

Draco almost laughed. He turned his palm up to show his arm to Albus. “Shall we compare notes?”

Albus reached out to the Dark Mark as if drawn to it. He traced the lines slowly with his finger. Draco’s breath caught, overcome with a powerful mix of thrill and shame.

“I’ve heard stories,” Albus said, “but I never—it didn’t seem like it really happened. The war. Like it was lifetimes ago. What was it like?”

“Not what you’d expect,” Draco answered truthfully. “Nothing felt all that different. You woke up, made it through your day, went to bed, started over again. It all seemed...normal, almost. Even the fear. It crept up so slowly you didn’t even notice until it had devoured you. Like it had always been there, the darkest part of you, but hidden, restrained, and now it was in the light, and everyone could see it, and you couldn’t put it away.”

“Exposed,” Albus said, his hand now completely resting over the Dark Mark, as if to hide it, or perhaps take the burden as his own.

Draco glanced at Albus, who was in turn staring at him, at his mouth in fact, in a similar way the Albus of Erised had looked at him right before snogging him into next week. Something shattered in Draco then, a resolve he didn’t know he’d been harboring. He knew with a profound certainty that this unexpected visit was something akin to destiny, and that he was the only person on Albus’ side, and no matter what he had done, Draco was willing to protect him from all the horrors that awaited him outside the Manor.

Draco pointed his wand at the door and said, “ _Accio_ Calming Draught.”

A moment later, a bottle zoomed into the room and Draco caught it. He offered it to Albus. “I brewed it myself.”

Albus let go of Draco’s arm and unstoppered it, then took a healthy swig.

“I get them too, the nightmares,” Draco offered. “Something we have in common.”

He tried not to think about how much they actually had in common: resentment toward Harry Potter born of unwavering envy and a firm lack of self-worth, failed potential, inquisitiveness bordering on neurosis, a flare for exploring forbidden magic, and what he assumed was a distinct preference for men.

He took the bottle from Albus’ hand and placed it on the table in case he needed it later. Already the boy’s eyes grew unfocused and his blinking slowed. Draco moved to stand and leave him to a peaceful sleep, but Albus caught his arm, over the Mark again.

“Stay,” he said. “Please.”

Draco’s heart pounded like it had when he had first heard Albus scream. “I don’t think that’s—”

“Ada?” Albus asked, expression darkening.

He was right, of course. Ada would be furious to know Draco hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep prior to their morning meeting. Then again, she might not care and instead buy him one of those lattes from the muggle coffeeshop she frequented. It would work itself out.

“She won’t mind,” Draco said. “Scorpius?”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

They stared at one another, Albus waiting, Draco considering. Despite the darkness he swore he could see a flush rise to Albus’ face, and for a moment let himself believe he wasn’t being used, or lied to, or manipulated, and that the boy in front of him admired him just as much as the boy from Erised.

Just once before returning to the truth of the matter—that Albus was merely softening up him to get the potion back, and once he did, he’d be gone, and Draco would have to defend him from afar: in court, against the Ministry, foiling the efforts to capture and imprison him—he could let himself give in.

“Alright,” he said, and climbed under the covers while Albus curled on his side away from him.

Draco slotted himself beside him, an arm protectively over his chest, heart thrumming beneath his palm. Just like in Erised, he ran hot, but not unpleasantly so, though this close, Draco could feel every knob of his spine, every rib, every soft breath filling his lungs—

“Thank you,” Albus whispered.

—and Draco fell asleep thinking about meals he and Griselda could prepare, fattening ones with bread and meat and cheese and multiple kinds of puddings, followed by evening walks around the grounds before it grew too cold, and picking each other’s minds about potions and alchemy.

 

⚕

 

Draco awoke to the feeling of a finger gently tracing a line across his chest. He wasn’t ready to open his eyes yet, to face whoever was touching him for whatever reason. It felt too good, this touch, and he didn’t want it to stop.

Then he heard a voice—deep, soft, terribly young—asking, “Where did you get these?”

At last he opened his eyes, and there was Potter, his head pillowed on Draco’s arm, blue-green eyes the brightest thing in the whole room. The sun had nothing on those eyes.

In the morning light, he didn’t look like a criminal, certainly not the wild rebel on all of his wanted posters. He looked as normal as he was probably always afraid of being, but extraordinary in all the ways he couldn’t yet see. Draco couldn’t help but reach out and comb his fingers through Albus’ hair, away from his face, tucking it neatly behind his ear.

“Your father gave them to me,” Draco replied. The scars had mostly faded into white slash marks across his chest and upper arms, another ghost of his trespasses, a reminder he deserved every time he looked at his reflection.

Albus’ expression grew dark again as it had last night, the events of which came back to Draco all at once. He tried to push his panic aside.

“What did he do to you?” Albus asked.

Not, Draco noticed, _What did you do to deserve it?_

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“That’s not fair.”

Draco shrugged. “Deal’s a deal.”

“You wouldn’t see me the same way if I told you. You wouldn’t want me in your house.”

“Try me.”

In lieu of a response, Albus shifted closer into Draco’s embrace, burying his face against the scars. Draco drifted off again, pretending this was a normal, everyday thing, waking up next to Albus Potter, looking into his sleepy morning eyes as sunlight slowly bled into the room. 

“It’s late,” Albus said eventually, what felt like hours later. “Is there coffee?”

Suddenly Draco was very awake. His whole body tensed. He lifted his arm and cast a wordless spell, which materialized two clock hands briefly before disappearing again. He’d slept until nine, an hour after he was due to meet Mr Jenkins and Ada.

“I’m sorry,” he said, extracting himself from Albus’ embrace. “I have—”

“Ada?” Albus asked coldly. The bed seemed enormous and lonely without Draco in it, and a spellbound pull threatened to draw him back in.

“I have to,” Draco said, backing out of the room. “And don't forget to eat something while I’m gone.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end note.

Albus spent the day in bed, watching a slat of sunlight skate across the floor until it disappeared into darkness. Occasionally, when it felt like his body was rebelling against him, he would sit up to take another sip of Calming Draught, then fall into a fitful half-sleep.

Mr Malfoy didn’t arrive home until after nightfall. Distantly Albus thought he might have come in to check on him, ask how he was feeling, put his hand to Albus’ forehead like he’d come down with a fever. Albus may have answered, or maybe he couldn’t. He had trouble staying in the present moment; he knew this was the beginning of the worst of it, and that Mr Malfoy had no idea what lay ahead of him.

“You said you’d done this before. How long did it take?” Mr Malfoy asked—that evening? The next day? His hair looked ruffled. Albus reached up and touched it, but he didn’t know why. Mr Malfoy let him, though his lips twitched in an indecipherable way.

“Dunno,” Albus said, his tongue thick, his jaw heavy. “Made it two days before giving in.”

Albus didn’t have a clear grasp on things after that.

Days passed. Or weeks, maybe. He floated through patterns of sunrise and twilight and nighttime. He endured lengthy bouts of pain so consuming he couldn’t even scream, could only freeze, rigid, until the wave subsided. It took him over, head to toe, as if someone were ripping off his skin all at once, and he was trapped in the moment for eternity.

He did scream sometimes, not in pain but frustration, in need. He begged for his potion back, threatened Mr Malfoy whether he was there beside him or not. He shouted wandless Killing Curses to no avail, threw the food offered to him across the room, and screamed even more.

In moments of calm, he slept, and his dreams were filled with even more agony: being chased again, Crucio’d again, but also getting captured by his father. His father gripping his upper arm, dragging him to the Ministry, condemning him to the Wizengamot, throwing him in Azkaban. Meanwhile Albus pleaded with him, apologized, told him he could turn things around if only he were given another chance. His father would hear none of it. _You’ve been given more chances than you deserve._

“Dad, Dad,” he found himself begging, wrestling with his father, digging his heels in the rocky beach entrance to Azkaban. “Please, Dad, you don’t—”

“Potter!” his father shouted back, pinning him down. “Potter, I’m not your father.”

The dream withered away and Mr Malfoy was left in its wake. He was jostling Albus, one hand on his arm and the other cupping the side of his face. His eyes were wide and afraid, maybe angry, too.

“Sorry,” Albus said, his voice hoarse from days of screaming. He sat up as he entered one of his brief lucid moments. The drapes were drawn over the curtains so he couldn’t tell the time of day. In the corner of the room a table and an armchair had been dragged in, books towered around it.

Seeing Albus’ inspection of the new furnishings, Mr Malfoy said, “Bit of light reading.”

“On what?”

“Oh, you know, this and that. Dark Magic, alchemy, the Mirror of Erised, some necromancy out of curiosity.”

At that, Albus slumped back down and covered his eyes with his hand.

“Not every day you get to bribe a bookseller for the sake of good. Restricted section! Who knew? Well, you did, I suppose.” He paused, and Albus opened one eye to look at him. He was twisting a bedsheet in his hand. “I only meant to find something that might cure...whatever is wrong with you, but having invented the potion yourself, and not knowing what it actually _is_ , my research options were somewhat limited.”

Albus remembered stepping over Muggles’ bodies, laid out on a concrete floor, all in varying stages of Erised or the withdrawal thereof. He knew the years he’d been addicted to the mirror would make coming off the potion difficult, but he never imagined this. He thought being a wizard meant he had a higher constitution for it perhaps, or that maybe it wasn’t an addiction at all, just a hobby, an extracurricular interest, in the same way someone might go on a run for exercise, or drink a cup of coffee in the morning before work. Erised was just a pick-me-up, he told himself. Who could fault him for a cup of coffee?

“Been a rough few days,” Mr Malfoy said, still straddling Albus’ thighs. “Ready to talk?”

He could. Merlin, it would be so easy—just tell Mr Malfoy the truth, take the potion, and leave. But he knew that outside the Manor awaited danger, and he was weak, and wandless, and he wouldn’t be able to brew more potion before the withdrawal hit again. And—more importantly—Mr Malfoy, renowned for his pureblood, Muggle-hating ancestry, would never want to speak to him again. He’d tell Scorpius, who in turn might never speak to him again, and then he’d have no one. Absolutely no one.

Maybe that was what he deserved. Maybe he should give himself up, make sure Mr Malfoy got the reward money, and relinquish his remaining years to Azkaban. It would be easier for everyone involved, himself included. There he could live out the rest of his life, a relief to everyone he knew.

That would be the kind thing to do. The heroic thing. But unlike his father, Albus had never been kind or heroic.

“No,” he said, nauseated by his own selfishness.

Mr Malfoy steadied a long look at him and crawled off his lap to sit cross-legged on the side of the bed. “It was destroyed recently, the mirror. Just a few years ago. Despite its importance as an artefact, it was ultimately decided the risk of its existence wasn’t worth the reward. You don’t have anything to do with its sudden affiliation with mortal danger, do you?”

Albus curled on his side, away from Mr Malfoy.

“Ah,” Mr Malfoy said. “I’m close, then.”

When it became clear Albus wasn’t going to reply, he added, “It doesn’t explain the potion, though. And while it screams of Dark Magic, I can’t verify it really is. And if I can’t, then Magical Law Enforcement wouldn’t be able to pull their heads far enough out of their arses to declare it illegal. So you’ve done something else, I think. Did you kill someone? Is that it?”

“No.”

“Good. Though I must admit, it would have been terribly exciting.”

Albus rolled over just enough to peer at him.

“Well it’s true.”

“Quit guessing. I’m not going to tell you.”

“You Potters and your bloody secrets,” Mr Malfoy said. “You’re worse than your father.”

Albus curled further in on himself. “I know.”

 

⚕

 

More in and out of consciousness, more days passing, more pain. At one point Albus had started clawing at his own skin uncontrollably and Mr Malfoy had to hold his hands for what felt like hours until the impulse waned. His grip was firm, his concentration unwavering. No one had ever afforded Albus this kind of patience, this loyalty he knew existed but had never dreamed would be offered to him. Even Scorpius would have broken by now. Seeing Albus in this much pain would have tortured him so thoroughly he would have had no choice but to owl Albus’ father for fear not doing so would lead to death.

But Albus felt safe in Mr Malfoy’s hands. Though there were moments he thought surely he was dying, he knew Mr Malfoy wouldn’t let that happen. He would have a trick up his sleeve, a shady acquaintance to bribe. He would burn down the Ministry if he had to, or so Albus liked to imagine. The idea planted itself so thoroughly in his mind, he dreamed about it, about Mr Malfoy invoking Voldemort himself just to save him. The power of these dreams took him away from his pain, almost like taking Erised, but a version so distilled it might as well have been water.

On his worst day, he had stopped screaming, fighting, crying. He couldn’t even move. He just lay there, staring at a wall, utterly catatonic. Every few minutes he had a brief full-body spasm. He was trapped somewhere between sleep and awake, a dream and reality, life and death.

That was how Mr Malfoy found him.

“Potter,” he said, panicked, dropping a stack of books to the floor and kneeling by the bed.

Albus felt like he was seeing and hearing him through a long tunnel, nearly beyond his scope of perception.

Mr Malfoy lifted one of Albus’ eyelids to shine _Lumos_ into his eyes. “Potter? Potter, if you can hear me, say something. Move something. Just—do _anything_.”

He kept talking, voice increasingly distressed. “Potter— _Albus_ , please. Talk to me. Let me know you’re still there. Albus. Albus, if you don’t say something this instant I will owl your father and give him your exact coordinates, so help me. You will be in the Ministry’s hands and there will be nothing I can do about it.”

After a silent minute, he began talking to himself. “Should I take you to a Healer? Do I know any Healers who wouldn’t rat you out right away? Why does your reward have to be so bloody high? No one in their right mind would take a petty bribe over twenty thousand galleons. Oh! I could—I could transfigure you. I could make you look like Scorpius. That’s it. That’s what I’ll—”

A loud knocking came from the front of the house. Mr Malfoy stood from the bed and said, “Don’t move,” then laughed, a maniacal high-pitched thing that died in his throat quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

Far off, nearly too far off to hear, Mr Malfoy was speaking to someone, a woman. A heavily accented woman whose voice was coming closer.

“Ada, wait. Ada, no, please, you don’t—” Mr Malfoy said.

The clacking of heels signaled Ada’s entrance into the bedroom. Even her presence couldn’t rouse Albus, though the need to look at her weighed heavily on him. He just couldn’t garner the energy to do it.

She held her wand aloft over his body as if scanning it. “He is very sick.”

“I know,” Mr Malfoy admitted.

“And he is more handsome than his photographs,” Ada added, smiling.

Mr Malfoy cleared his throat and said, “Yes.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s going through some kind of...withdrawal.”

“Withdrawal from what?”

“A muggle drug. Heroin, I think.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Nor have I until now, though it’s apparently quite addictive.”

“Muggles,” Ada said with condescension. “Always creating their own magic.”

“I don’t know what to do. Obviously I can’t call on anyone. He’d be tossed in Azkaban before we could even build a case.”

Ada stood and looked again at Mr Malfoy. “May I sing to him?”

“Pardon?”

“Veela lullabies can heal. To us, they might quiet a cough, soothe a cut finger. To you, the effect is stronger, or so I am told.”

“Yes, yes, absolutely, of course.”

Albus felt soft fingers carding through his hair, a low alto in his ear. The song was melodic, words indecipherable, notes somehow echoing within his mind. It made him feel as if he were swaddled in a blanket and held tightly against the chest of someone who loved him dearly. The pain subsided to a dull throb in his temple. His muscles uncoiled from their rigid tension.

He moved a finger. Then another. Then his whole arm, just to the edge of the bed.

“I think it’s working,” Mr Malfoy said, and took his hand. Albus squeezed it.

 

⚕

 

Albus entered the kitchen, expecting to find Griselda, but instead found Mr Malfoy in front of the stove, a pan and spatula in hand, tea towel over his shoulder. He was humming something while he cooked.

“Good morning,” Albus said.

Mr Malfoy spun around. “Merlin’s beard, you’re up.”

Albus had gotten out of bed on his own, took a shower, changed into the clothes left for him (more of Scorpius’), and walked tenuously into the kitchen in hopes to find food. He was starving.

“Where’s Griselda?”

“It’s Saturday. She gets weekends off.”

Though he felt better overall, Albus still couldn’t stand for too long without getting light-headed. He slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and said, “I’m hungry.”

“Of course you are. You haven’t eaten in days.”

Mr Malfoy plated up whatever had been in the pan and brought it over to him. “Eat up, I’ve got plenty more.”

“How long have I been…” Albus began, but didn’t have the words to complete the thought.

Mr Malfoy turned back to the stove and plated a second of whatever he had given Albus. On closer inspection it appeared to be an omelette. A Malfoy, cooking his own breakfast. Albus’ father would drop dead at the sight. “Been a little over two weeks since you arrived.”

Albus couldn’t let himself dwell on it. He cut into his omelette and barely chewed before swallowing. He shoveled down the toast, too.

“Good to see your appetite’s returned,” Mr Malfoy said, taking a seat at the table with his own plate and a cup of coffee. “You’re feeling better, I assume.”

Albus nodded, but his mouth was too full to speak. His head still hurt but it was a bearable pain, he felt incredibly weak, and the need for Erised still throbbed throughout his whole body. The insistence felt like part of him, though, a weight he had carried since he discovered the mirror eight years ago.

“So,” Mr Malfoy ventured, “ready to talk?”

Albus glared at him.

After a long pause while Mr Malfoy cut into his food, he asked, “You’d like to stay a while longer then?”

Albus swallowed down a large bite and considered it. Finally he said, “If that’s all right. I don’t want to be a burden.”

Mr Malfoy smiled at him and placed a hand gently on his wrist. “You’re not a burden, Albus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mentions of self-harm and heroin.


	6. Chapter 6

Scorpius was the best son any father could ask for. At a very young age, he learned to articulate his needs and ask for them politely. Those needs were always simple, practical, and for the greater good of his health and happiness. He rarely cried. He found the silver lining in all things. He appreciated what was given to him and wanted little more than what he already had. He liked Draco to read to him nightly, until he found he could read to himself. Draco bought him a new book every week or so, and eventually Scorpius’ room grew to become something of a library, nearly every space of wall covered in books, the floor stacked with towers so high it was difficult to navigate through the room without toppling one.

Of his faults, the worst was perhaps his naivety. He took everything said to him at face value, rarely read between the lines, and approached all of his relationships with openness and affection. Were it not for his singularly focused drive for achievement coupled with a near-blind sense of loyalty and a dash of cunning charm that couldn’t be matched, Draco was sure he would have been a Hufflepuff.

He often couldn’t believe he had fathered such a being, who seemed to have all of his strengths and none of his flaws. He couldn’t doubt that Scorpius was his son—they shared the same smile, the same laugh, blonde hair and grey eyes and a fabulous sense of fashion. It took him years to admit that Scorpius was a version of himself that might have existed had he not been brought up under the heavy, cruel hand of Lucius Malfoy, believing in all that pureblood, anti-muggle nonsense, and participating in the wrong side of a war that shattered his entire life. Scorpius was the embodiment of everything Draco could have been, his potential personified.

It was also because of this that Scorpius was his pride and joy, that he had been born into a broken world and Draco protected him from the worst of it, supported him in his interests, encouraged his kindness, and accepted him for who he was. A lot could be said of Malfoys, but they certainly learned from their mistakes.

The point being: Albus was nothing like Scorpius, and over the days of turmoil following the boy’s arrival, Draco realized how lucky he’d been over the last two decades raising a boy with innate common sense. At the worst of Albus’ withdrawal—when he threw things, and shouted, and begged to die—Draco had actually _sympathized_ with Harry Potter while simultaneously blaming him.

Everything Albus seemed to want could feasibly destroy him, and he possessed the wit, focus, and dedication to achieve that which he wanted. In the weeks after his episode (which seemed to dissipate all at once like the breaking of a fever), Draco became intimately familiar with all of his strange habits. He preferred junk food over anything healthy. Some days he forgot to eat entirely and instead drank seven cups of coffee. He only slept a handful of hours a night, and was so exhausted by mid-afternoon, he’d take a three hour nap and stay up even later that evening. Some days he stayed up until Draco woke, had breakfast with him, and went to bed shortly after. He always went outside without a coat in spite of the plummeting temperature and claimed the cold didn’t bother him. Draco bickered with him constantly, waffling between pleading and demanding he make healthier choices, neither of which worked. His iron will made his father’s look like a wilted daffodil.

Albus’ self-destructive tendencies were so glaringly counterintuitive to what Draco had been brought up to believe—survival of the bloodline above all else—that he couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Nevertheless, as the weeks passed, he continued showing overall signs of improvement. Draco could still see it on him, the wanting, the pull of Erised, but only when he thought no one was looking. It was a dead-eyed stare like his mind had been placed in another world entirely, as if he couldn’t bear a second more of the reality he was trapped within.

Every day Draco asked Albus if he was ready to talk. Every day Albus said no. At first it was a hesitant no, as if he were genuinely considering it. Each no grew angrier. Draco was concerned by this until he realized this was Albus’ way of saying, _I’m not giving in today._ The opportunity was there, and every day he chose not to take it. Draco felt a stronger surge of pride with every firm no given to him. The cloudy longing in Albus’ eyes faded and turned again sharp and alive, closer to the boy at King’s Cross Draco once knew.

Then Draco began to notice other things. He found himself staring at Albus’ dimples whenever he smiled. He wondered if the smattering of freckles on his cheeks darkened in summer. And when he laughed, the bridge of his nose crinkled. So Draco continued making him laugh, taking every opportunity for a dry one-liner so subtle no one else would probably pick up on it, relishing in the quickness of the boy’s wit, the delighted cackle of his response.

Albus in turn began following Draco around the Manor, jabbering non-stop about nothing in particular. It seemed impossible that the half-dead boy he knew just a month ago was the same person as today. Whenever Albus stopped talking for long enough, the next words out of his mouth would be, “I’m bored.”

To which Draco would reply, “Go read a book,” or, “Go for a run,” or, “Go clean an ancient artefact in the parlor,” or, “Go bug Ada.” The last one always shut him up. Though Draco had taken time from work to tend to the boy’s illness, he was now back to a full caseload, spending eight or more hours a day hunched over his desk, taking most of his meals there, only occasionally appeasing Albus by playing a round of wizard’s chess or whatever else he wanted to do.

It was only when Albus started talking to the portraits at length that Draco decided to intervene. Over breakfast one day, as casually as he could manage, he asked, “What kind of marks did you get on your NEWTs?” knowing full-well Albus had dropped out part way through his seventh year and went missing. Scorpius had been devastated, of course, and on the few occasions Draco had to visit the Ministry around that time, it was all anyone could talk about. The _Prophet_ was saturated with speculation for weeks, which then turned into alarm, and then the wanted posters went up, and no one had any clue what had actually gone on. Albus either had no clue about his newfound infamy, or refused to acknowledge it.

He looked at Draco disdainfully as if he saw right through the ruse. His shoulders shrugged up like a child's and he muttered, “I didn’t get any.”

“Ah. Well.” Draco took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Let’s make another deal.”

Albus continued glaring at him from underneath a curtain of messy bedhead. Though most of the withdrawal symptoms had let up, his mood was still as steady as a jinxed broom. Draco was beginning to think his rocky disposition had nothing to do with Erised and was in fact a fundamental trait of his personality.

“If you’re going to continue staying here, eating my food and annoying the piss out of me and putting me at risk of aiding and abetting, I think you ought to be studying for your NEWTs.” When Albus didn’t reply, Draco continued: “Scorpius has all the materials in his room. And it’ll give you something to do while I’m working so you won’t die of boredom.”

At this Albus abruptly stood from the table and took his plate with him, the food upon which had barely been touched.

“Where are you going?” Draco demanded.

“To bed.”

 

⚕

 

They had their good days and bad, and despite Albus’ initial hesitance toward studying for his NEWTs, Draco found textbooks and note-scrawled pieces of parchment strewn about the Manor. He left a mess in his wake wherever he went and eventually Griselda gave up tidying after him. She told Draco, “I serve Big Master and Little Master only! Big little Potter pick up after himself!”

Today was one of Albus’ good days. He was laughing at some story he was telling about fifth year when Scorpius had accidentally transfigured a shoe into a pigeon, which promptly flew away, and resulted in Scorpius hobbling around the castle in one socked foot trying to get it back. They were on a walk around the grounds, a ritual they’d begun every day following tea. The grounds encompassed acres of land peppered with forest and trails and wildflower gardens. Draco had to assure Albus he was safe to go outside and that no one could see them here. The enchanted hedges bordering the property kept curious eyes away.

It was nearing the end of October and the leaves had all turned red and orange and had fallen from the trees. Albus went out of his way at times to step on one that looked particularly crunchy. He seemed to get immeasurable joy out of this. Draco normally thought these kinds of things were irritating and frivolous, but when Albus did them, he found them unbearably endearing.

“What were you doing when you were my age?” Albus asked.

Draco could feel his gaze but didn’t return it. If he did, he’d see a pink-tipped nose and ears, wind-ruffled black hair, one of Scorpius’ jumpers engulfing his body and the sleeves pulled down over his hands, still stubbornly refusing a coat.

If Draco looked now, he wouldn’t be able to look away again.

“That was right after the war ended,” Draco said. “I met Scorpius’ mother around that time. Probably why we jumped into things a bit too quickly. She was pure-blood, which made my father happy despite all that had happened, and more importantly, she had so little to do with the war that she only had a cursory knowledge of my part in it.”

“The scars you mean? And the Mark?”

The memory of lying in bed with Albus came to Draco’s mind then, his finger tracing the scars, the quiet, easy peace of it all. And with it a flush that he hoped seemed only like the bite of chill wind. Being the first night of his episode, he had doubted Albus remembered. Draco, however, had locked the memory away and only brought it out at night, eyes closed and pretending Albus was asleep beside him.

Knowing Albus remembered it as well made something twist in Draco’s chest. “Not quite.”

“Scorpius never told me. I don’t think he wanted me to think badly of you, even though I wouldn’t have. And my dad just...never talks about anything before a certain year. My mum either, but in her defence she never talks about much at all except her plans for today, tomorrow, and Quidditch. Everything I know about it came from Uncle Ron after he got a few drinks in.”

Draco took a long breath and shoved his hands in his pockets so Albus couldn’t see them tremble. He hadn’t talked about it, ever, and knew the reason Scorpius never relayed the information was in part because he didn’t know much about it himself. In retrospect, it was cruel of Draco, knowing Scorpius must have gotten half of his information from Astoria and the other half from research and rumours, which probably drew a terrible picture. Though, he considered, not one that could have possibly been worse than the truth. It certainly explained Scorpius’ obsession with collecting history books.

“I was chosen by the Dark Lord to kill your namesake.”

Albus stopped walking. “You’re kidding.”

“I couldn’t do it, of course. But I saw it happen. I was the one to put the plan in motion, to see it to its end. I had him there. I could have done it. But I just...didn’t.”

“Severus Snape did.” Albus paused as if he had just now put it the pieces together. “My other namesake.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your father has a very dry sense of humour.”

“I think it’s really cool, what you did."

At this Draco spared him a quizzical glance.

“I don’t mean, like, _cool_ , I just mean...you were put in a bad position—loyalty to your family which in Slytherin we’re taught to value above all else, versus killing your perceived enemy to protect them. But in spite of all that, and how old you were, and that you were manipulated by the people you loved and trusted, you still couldn’t do it. I think that’s admirable. I think people should be shaking your hand instead of my father’s.”

Draco looked down. The chill couldn't hide the redness of his face this time. “I don’t know about that.”

“Well I do. My dad never had to second-guess whether he was right or wrong. You were a child indoctrinated into a damaging ideology and held to an impossible standard, but you still overcame it.”

“I’m not sure I can see it that way. To me it felt like a failing on every level. 'A boy who made all the wrong choices,' Dumbledore said. I feel like I’m still making up for it over twenty years later.”

“Yeah,” Albus said. “I know the feeling.”

 

⚕

 

November arrived, and with it, the Boddington court date. The morning of, Draco was rushing around, triple-checking his evidence files he had packed the night before, and for some reason totally unable to tie his necktie. Ada stepped in and took the task away from him.

“You should go instead,” Draco said. “I can’t leave Albus alone for this long. What if he—”

“He’ll be fine,” Ada said, tightening the knot to Draco’s throat.

“Have you met him?”

She flicked him lightly on the nose. “He is a good boy.”

“So you haven’t met him.”

She cupped his face in her hands and gave him a look that said she was about to offer one of her spiritually enlightening speeches which at first drove Draco mad but eventually—given how she was always right about everything and had in fact taught Draco quite a lot about himself—grew on him. No one had ever challenged him the way Ada did. She pushed him to be the best version of himself.

“Albus suffers more than most of us,” she said. “Nearly as much as you, but unlike you, he does not know why he carries the pain he does.” She took his hand and rested hers over his forearm. “Can you imagine being born with this Mark? Not knowing why you have it, what you are being punished for, only knowing there is a darkness in you that other people do not have?”

Draco stared at her hand over his arm. He thought about Scorpius, the frequency of his smile, the ease of his joy. And Albus with his haunted heart.

“Darkness is not evil on its own, but the soil from which it grows,” she added. “You of all people should know this.”

“You’re right.” He took a steadying breath. “He’ll be fine.”

Ada smiled and squeezed his hand. “Now, go win our case.”

 

⚕

 

Draco arrived home well after nightfall, stumbling out of his ill-advised Apparation. He looked at one hand, then the other, then patted his chest and thighs. All there. He’d had far too many celebratory Beetle Berry Fizzy Whiskies with Adalene. Thank Merlin Granger was such a sap for romance, love is love and all that, even if it was weird love between a tiny grouchy woman and a merman with whom she wanted to bear children. Bear fish? Fish children. Though, Draco noticed, Granger looked increasingly exhausted every time he saw her. Today she was barely paying attention to the proceedings.

As Draco ascended the front steps, he imagined for some reason Albus waiting for him just beyond the door. On his knees. Naked. Looking up only when Draco addressed him. And then, for kicks, a collar around his throat. It was a nice thought, the kind he wouldn’t allow himself were he sober. The kind he considered in bed at night, Albus just in the opposite wing, a mere hallway away. He knew these fantasies were profane at best and perverted at worst, but such was the benefit of being an Occlumens: he could bury them away to ignore during waking hours.

The Manor was dark, the portraits quiet. Griselda was likely already in bed for the night. No naked Albus was waiting for him, though the mental image crystallized as Draco stumbled through the foyer, not towards his quarters, but Albus’. As silently as he could, he pushed the door open and peeked in. A lamp was flickering by the bed, which was, strangely, made. And empty.

Panic immediately bubbled into his chest. On impulse, he grabbed his wand from his breast pocket and spun around, as if Potter Senior were hiding behind him ready to strike. The reality quickly sunk in: it was far more likely Albus would have left of his own accord than the safety of the Manor breached.

He didn’t know what to do. Should he look for him? Where would he look anyway? He realized that for all Albus’ rambling, he never spoke about the past year, always carefully skirting any information that would indicate where he had come from or how he got there.

A noise caught his attention: the creak of bedsprings. He looked down the hall to see a slat of orange light under the door to Scorpius’ room. He followed the sound and pushed open the door.

There, Albus was in bed, propped up against the headboard, an book open over his chest and face slack in sleep. In a flood of relief and without letting himself think about what he was doing, Draco quietly entered. Above him, nine planets orbited a dull sun in the centre of the ceiling under an enchanted night sky. A fire flickered in the hearth. A large telescope pointed to the stars out the bay window. Scorpius’ room was the coziest of the entire Manor, reminiscent of a Hogwarts dorm combined with a sadly neglected bookstore.

He approached the bed, telling himself he was making sure Albus was alive and safe and hadn’t had an unexpected relapse.

Albus stirred and blinked open his eyes. He smiled when he saw Draco. “D’you win?”

Draco climbed into bed beside him, knowing his sober self would be furious with him tomorrow and giving exactly zero fucks. “Two out of three. Marriage and modification granted, reproduction issue is reasonably stuck in some red tape. Didn’t expect to win that one without some pushback, but it wasn’t a downright no.”

Albus rubbed his eye with his fist. It was agonizingly cute. “The war on fish-human love may not be over, but today’s battle is won.”

Draco shoved him playfully in the ribs. “Shut up.”

“You’re drunk,” Albus said, grinning now.

“A _little_ ,” Draco replied, poking again at his stomach. This time Albus grabbed his wrist and held his hand. “And you’re _reading_.” He tilted his head to look at the title:  _A Very Thorough History of Dark Magick_ by Gregory Gainsborough _._ “Don’t tell me they added a new topic to this year’s NEWTs.”

“No, this is just for fun.”

“You are the least fun person I’ve ever known.”

“Look who’s talking.” Albus pinched his features and mimicked Draco’s drawl: “‘Eat ninety percent green food every day. Work until your quill melts. Never smile with your teeth, only the slightest crook of your mouth. Don’t let anyone know you’re happy.’ You’re just an old rich maid moping about your castle.”

“That’s not fair,” Draco said. “I’m not old.”

“Oh, no.” Albus offered a smile so sinister it was as if the book had invaded his entire spirit. “You’re definitely ancient.”

They had somehow gotten very close during this exchange. Their legs were entwined, hands clasped together. Draco always got handsy when he drank; it was just the alcohol.

“You’re so old, in fact, you’re in this book,” Albus added.

Draco’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Mhm.” Albus let go of his hand to pick up the book again. Draco left it where it lay. He tucked his fingers under the hem of Albus’ shirt and caressed the soft skin above his hip, watching as his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

“The whole thing is about how Dark Magic isn’t bad,” Albus said, “just that unlike other magic, it takes sacrifice to perform. It’s the most balanced of all magic. To get something, you have to give something. What gives it a bad reputation is that wizards will _take_ something to get what they want, so over the centuries it’s been attributed to all the spells that hurt, control, and kill.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

Albus flipped to the last few pages, which appeared to be about—surprise—Harry Potter. “It says here my grandmother sacrificed herself to save my father—which I knew, of course, everyone knows that—but that few people rarely consider it to be Dark Magic she performed. Technically it did cause harm, both to herself and Voldemort.”

Draco tried not to compulsively shudder at the name. All these years and it still jarred him.

Albus skipped a few more pages. An illustration of a teenaged Draco Malfoy was drawn poutily in the corner. “There’s a whole article about you here that says, basically, you’re a shining example of how the polarity of other historical texts is wrong. The Dark Mark was forced on you. You were coerced into action and you refused. Other history books want to make all Death Eaters seem fundamentally evil, but the book is just saying, you know, it was more complicated than that, and keeping an accurate record of the wizards involved and their motivations is important in making sure we never get a Voldemort sequel.”

Draco made a thoughtful noise. “Suppose I can’t disagree, all considered. Although it’s surreal reading about myself as if I were dead.”

“See? Old.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve convinced me. I’m going to collapse into dust any moment now.”

Albus looked at him and with surprising sincerity said, “You better not.” He broke the sudden tension with one of his adorable laughs, the kind that made Draco want to do something terribly stupid, like kiss him.

He flipped back through the book to the start of the chapter. “And the best part is, my dad isn’t written about like he’s any better or worse than anyone else in this book. If everyone talked about him like this, I don’t think I’d hate him nearly as much as I do.”

“I don’t think you really hate him.”

“No? Certainly feels like it.”

Draco’s eyelids felt heavy. It had been such a long day, and he was so comfortable, and Albus was so warm and easy to hold. “I thought so for a long time too. But it was—I don’t know—not quite envy, really. Just frustration with the whole thing. We lived in a time where a completely ordinary boy had to be lifted to extraordinary heights. I grew up seething about it, wondering what it was like to be the Chosen One, picked at random like winning some kind of fucked-up lottery, and everyone perceiving it as something it wasn’t, like there was something special _about_ him and not just that he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Then when I became a Chosen One of sorts I saw how daft it all was. None of us mattered. None of us were special or important. We were just _there_ , objects to be used, pieces in some arsehole’s stupid game.”

“A powerful arsehole, and a game that killed a lot of people.” Albus turned the page, which boasted an illustration of the Elder Wand. “Do you still think about it? The war?”

“Every day,” Draco admitted.

“Does it still hurt sometimes?”

“It never stopped.”

Albus quieted then, and snuggled deeper into Draco’s embrace, book propped open on his knees, while Draco drifted off.


	7. Chapter 7

Albus awoke in Scorpius’ bed, Mr Malfoy curled around his back. The enchanted ceiling blazed a light winter blue with no clouds. The planets continued rotating in their orbits, the center sun glowing brightly. _A Very Thorough History of Dark Magick_ lay on the bed beside him, open to the page of Mr Malfoy’s portrait. This was the second time Albus had woken up beside him, though the first he couldn’t remember clearly. He had a distant image of the scars and the Mark and a sense of simple peace before the withdrawal had overtaken him.

Mr Malfoy stirred, groaning slightly into the nape of Albus’ neck. His hand was on Albus’ hip, and he pressed himself closer. Albus could feel—

_Sweet Merlin._

—Mr Malfoy’s cock pressed against his arse. Albus ground back on impulse, and they shifted against one another in a drowsy half-sleep. In Albus’ best friend’s bed. With said best friend’s father.

Somehow, in the sickest part of his mind, that made the whole thing hotter. Truth told, he didn’t feel too bad about it. After all, their motto had always been _act first, apologize later (if someone makes you)._

Albus had taken off his shirt at some point during the night. Mr Malfoy was still dressed, shoes and all, having fallen asleep so quickly he hadn’t bothered taking anything off. Albus would have cast a bloody Killing Curse in a room full of infants to remove the layers between them, for the hand gripping his hip to slide into his pyjama bottoms, for Mr Malfoy to roll him onto his stomach and push inside of him.

Mr Malfoy was grinding in earnest now, gripping Albus’ hip so hard that it almost hurt. Albus wanted it to hurt more, to see finger-shaped bruises left in his wake.

Albus was biting his lip to keep from making noise, though he couldn’t help the heavy panting, the sweat of his lower back clinging to Mr Malfoy’s shirt, his hands clutching the sheets, his own cock rigidly dragging against the fabric of his pants.

Mr Malfoy froze, said something like, “Oh bloody—” and skittered abruptly off the bed onto the floor. Unfortunately he’d dragged the covers with him, and in the covers, Albus. Which was how Albus landed on top of Mr Malfoy, which was in fact a very good place to be.

“Merlin help me,” Mr Malfoy said, hair all mussed and a splotchy redness creeping up his neck.

“I’d rather he didn’t.” Now Albus was straddling him and continued grinding himself on Mr Malfoy’s cock as if they hadn’t been interrupted.

“We should…” Mr Malfoy began. Albus moved a little in a certain way and his words got stopped up in his throat. He made a frustrated noise and rolled them over so Albus was on his back, ornate rug rough against his skin, Mr Malfoy between his legs. Albus continued rutting desperately despite the uncomfortable angle.

Mr Malfoy grabbed his chin roughly, fingers digging into his cheeks. At this Albus let out a moan and twitched his hips fruitlessly toward the friction now being denied to him. Mr Malfoy’s gaze traveled down to his mouth and for a moment Albus thought he might kiss him, but instead he hissed through his teeth, “Do _not_ tempt me, Potter.”

With remarkable grace for a hungover middle-aged man who had just woken up with his cock dug against the arse of a nineteen year old, Mr Malfoy got up and left the room.

 

⚕

 

It was hard for Albus to believe things were getting better. It was harder to believe he was studying for his NEWTs (as much as he hated it and thought it was useless and dumb). It was hardest to believe that Mr Malfoy cared enough to help him with both of these things.

He found himself cycling between the euphoric high of being in Mr Malfoy’s presence, followed by devout lows of wishing he had Erised to better delve into the fantasies that were rapidly overwhelming him. In the mornings he blurted out everything on his mind over coffee, somehow totally unable to control his brain-to-mouth connection. In the afternoon it took all of his willpower to allow Mr Malfoy the peace he requested in order to complete his work. And in the evening, after their walk, Albus would go to bed and close his eyes and try to will himself into Erised, crafting imaginary scenarios that might play out between them: Mr Malfoy entering his room in the middle of the night, climbing into bed with him. Albus would go, _Oh, Mr Malfoy, we shouldn’t…_ and Mr Malfoy would say, _Who are you to say what we should or shouldn’t do? ,_  and kiss him.

That was the mildest of the fantasies, anyway. As the days dragged on, Albus let himself become consumed by them, allowed them to spiral out of control. In one, he was on his knees, begging for his potion back, and Mr Malfoy backhanded him and called him filthy names. In another, he took Albus to court, bent him over, and fucked him in front of the entire Wizengamot. In a third, he devised a series of punishments for Albus that began with a simple belt-whipping and which derailed into gagging him, tying him up, and fucking him until he cried. At the edges of Albus’ consciousness, he knew he could think of worse things, but the further he let himself imagine, the more difficult it was to be around Mr Malfoy. In turn it felt like Mr Malfoy was avoiding him as well, rarely making eye contact, only replying in monosyllables, being eerily polite and not at all antagonistic.

Every moment around him, Albus wanted to drop to his knees and bow his head and ask for Mr Malfoy’s permission just to breathe. Mr Malfoy’s hand in his hair, cock in his mouth, come down his throat. Even though Albus had always been gung-ho in his seduction methods (in all things, the best way to get what you wanted was to ask for it outright), he did his best to keep his hands to himself knowing Mr Malfoy had a girlfriend. Normally he could give a fuck less shagging someone with a significant other—he would probably even invite them along—but he didn’t want to muck up Mr Malfoy’s life more than he already had. He at least owed him that much.

Mr Malfoy was not the first crush he’d ever had on an older man. Professor O’Toole was a temporary Potions Master in Albus’ fourth year, taking over for Professor Ravencorn who was having a baby. Professor O’Toole was in his early thirties, with sandy-coloured curly hair and the whitest teeth Albus had ever seen. Thankfully Professor O’Toole also oversaw detention, so Albus was particularly misbehaved that year, nicking items from Filch’s pockets slowly so he’d get caught, falling asleep in Transfiguration, offering Peeves the Sizzling Shrieking Smelling Smouldering Smoke Bomb prototypes that Uncle Ron had given him for his birthday, which were so effective the faculty ended up closing the entire Slytherin dormitory for a week for fumigation. For his efforts, Albus spent every evening and Saturday afternoon in the company of Professor O’Toole, asking innocent questions about potions-making. Despite his troublesome tendencies, it was the only time he had ever gotten decent marks in Potions, and in fact he learned quite a lot. At least enough that it started him on the path which lead to alchemizing his mirror. Professor O’Toole, honourable beacon of Hufflepuff pride, would have been horrified to know his teachings had gone to concocting one of the most dangerous substances in existence, but in Albus’ defence, it was pretty fucking cool.

On the night of the first snowfall, Albus couldn’t sleep. He had intended to root around in Mr Malfoy’s potion stores to find some Sleeping Draught but instead found himself staring out the dining room window at the heavy clumps of snow falling atop the deadened garden. It gave him an idea.

He sifted through the pantry and refrigerator and boiled up some hot cocoa (Muggle-style, which was to say, slowly). He poured it into two mugs with some marshmallows on top and took them to Mr Malfoy’s study.

Predictably, he was still awake. The door was open a crack. Since he couldn’t knock, he asked, “Mr Malfoy? Can I come in?”

In lieu of a response, the door swung open.

Mr Malfoy was poring over a new case, scowling at a piece of parchment while idly floating random objects around his head: a broken quill nib, a crystal paperweight, something that looked like a skull of a very small beast. His hair was messier than usual and his tie was loose, the top button of his shirt undone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbow, exposing the Mark. Every time Albus got the opportunity to see it, it did something to him, twisted something ugly and exciting in his gut.

Albus enjoyed witnessing him in moments like this. His shoulders, which were normally straight with his perfect posture, were rounded. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Without the expensive suit jackets and robes that made him seem larger than life, his body was thin and trim like he’d barely aged at all, nothing like Uncle Ron who had gained a spare tire compared to his younger photographs, or his father who, while still in shape, had broadened a bit in the shoulders and whose hair had begun to grey.

“Surely we’re familiar enough that you can start calling me Drac—” He glanced at Albus and did a double take.

“Albus,” he said, looking him up and down, and Albus realized he was only in his pyjama bottoms, which shouldn’t have been surprising given all the states Mr Malfoy— _Draco_ —had already seen him in.

Albus brought the cocoa over to the desk and set it down. When Draco only leaned back in his chair and stared at it—the objects floating around him flying obediently back to their places on his desk—Albus added, “Are you sure? ‘Mr Malfoy’ has such a professional ring to it.”

“Coming into my study in the middle of the night half-naked and brandishing cocoa is hardly professional.”

“Can I have a seat?” Albus asked.

Draco looked at him suspiciously. “All right.”

Albus dropped carefully to his knees beside Draco’s chair and sat back on his heels. He basked in Draco’s response, which was something of a stunned expression that quickly turned into irritation. “Get up.”

“I’m fine here, thanks.” He took a sip of his cocoa.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m having déjà vu.”

“Oh?” Albus asked. “Do you imagine me on my knees often?”

“Now is not the time for—I have a—”

“Case to work on, yes I know, you hardly think or do or talk about anything else.” Albus leaned his head against Draco’s thigh. “Take a break. Talk to me. I miss you.”

“I see you every day. Multiple times a day.” Draco took the cue and ran his fingers through Albus’ hair.

Albus’ eyes fluttered shut. “Not enough. I like being around you. It makes—” He made a vague hand gesture over his body. “—hurt less.”

“It still hurts?”

“Sometimes,” Albus admitted, “but not physical pain. Just a—an emptiness, I guess. And I don’t feel it when I’m around you.”

Draco continued carding his fingers through Albus’ hair and scratching gently at his scalp. “I’m not giving it to you.”

Albus looked up at him. “What?”

“Erised. No matter how much you pretend to like me, I’m not handing it over.”

“You think I’m only pretending to like you?”

Draco let out a sad huff of a laugh. “I see the strings you think you’ve got me on.”

“Mister M— _Draco_ , no offense, but you’re an idiot.”

Draco gripped Albus’ hair in his fist but didn’t quite pull. Albus clenched his teeth and silently wished he would. “Excuse you.”

“I don’t mean—I’m not manipulating you. I’m not asking for Erised. I just—I couldn’t sleep. And—and I wanted company. Your company.”

Draco’s grip loosened. It felt like he wanted to say something else, that he didn’t believe Albus perhaps, but he’d humour him anyway.

Not being able to handle the silence, Albus asked, “Will you tell me what you’re working on?”

“The Jenkins case,” Draco said, though his voice sounded clipped and disinterested.

“Tell me about it?”

“Breach of the Statute, which is a bit absurd if you ask me, given all that’s happened. Keeping up the secrecy pretense at this point seems sentimental more than anything.”

Albus’ heart picked up speed. “What did he do?”

“He performs street magic for Muggles.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish. Here’s the rub: he’s a Squib. His ‘magic’ isn’t real magic. Just sleight of hand. But he’s really, really good at it, so it looks like magic.”

“Why does that even deserve a case? And why does that case involve so much paperwork?”

“I’m trying to find the actual, legal definition of ‘magic’ to superimpose over the Statute, which doesn’t define it on its own. What part of the Statute remains is meant to keep wizards from commodifying magic, putting it in the hands of Muggles for the sake of profit and power. It’s not intended for telling your trusted Muggle spouse that you’re a witch, or in this case, doing totally non-magical card tricks on the tube. But since Jenkins is _technically_ a wizard, and he’s _technically_ doing ‘magic’, it warrants a defence. I have a feeling your aunt is going to have absolutely none of it—bless her big, frizzy head—but the rest of the council are ancient sticks in the mud who like seeing the semantics of their silly laws upheld.”

Albus tried not to expose the tremor in his voice. “What if—what if Mr Jenkins _had_ been doing real magic in front of Muggles?”

“As long as he played his tricks off as just that, tricks, I would argue that the Statute hadn’t been breached because Muggles are aware they’re being tricked. They don’t believe in real magic.”

“Okay, but say Mr Jenkins did do real magic, obvious magic, in front of Muggles. Like, a lot of Muggles. On stage, maybe, and sold tickets to it and made a lot of money. And let’s say that the Muggles really, really liked the magic, and kept coming back for more, demanding more, even, until he’d amassed quite a bit of profit.”

Draco paused playing with Albus’ hair. “What are you asking me?”

“You’re a lawyer. I’m keeping it hypothetical.”

“Well, _hypothetically_ , that would be a discernible breach of the Statute, and there would be no skirting time in Azkaban, but I think I could work his sentence down as long as he’d kept a record of ticket holders so the Muggles could, feasibly, be Obliviated.”

Albus felt like he might puke. “And...if he hadn’t kept a record?”

Draco tugged Albus’ hair, directing his gaze up so their eyes could meet. “Then he would be royally, genuinely, and completely fucked.”

“But?”

“But if he were the son of the supposed greatest wizard of our generation and nephew of the Minister of Magic, it would be a different story.”

“How would that change anything?”

“It wouldn’t change the situation, but it has a good chance of changing the outcome. And I would defend him no matter what he’d _hypothetically_ done.”

“No matter what?”

Draco’s stony composure cracked briefly and he offered a small smile. “No matter what.”

 

⚕

 

Albus awoke on Christmas morning to a shocking transformation of his bedroom. Enchanted snow was falling on him and disappearing, a massive tree sat in the corner, a little train ran in circles around his bed, and the ground was littered with gifts. He had assumed that, like Hallow’s Eve, Draco didn’t celebrate holidays. He also considered that maybe he didn’t even notice them. The Malfoys weren’t particularly celebratory on any front. Albus didn’t think Scorpius had ever given him a gift for any specific gift-giving day; loads of gifts randomly, of course, but never a birthday or Christmas gift. Waking up to this, to say the least, was surprising.

He barely had time to take it all in when Draco entered carrying a large tray. He was already dressed—black suit with a red-and-green striped tie, which was probably as festive as he got—and looked remarkably happy, probably happier than Albus had ever seen him.

“Happy Christmas, Albus,” he said, setting it down on the bed and climbing on it himself, settling cross-legged at the opposite end, the tray nestled between them.

“Happy Christmas?” Albus asked. He looked around. “Where’s Griselda?”

“On holiday.”

The tray was filled with Albus’ favorite breakfast foods (eggs, bacon, toast) and coffee the way he liked it (nearly white, tons of sugar). His jaw must have been loose because Draco asked, “Well? Dig in.”

“What is all this?”

“Does the Potter-Weasley-Granger clan not celebrate Christmas?”

“No, we do, just—I didn’t think you did.”

Draco looked offended. “Just because my son is gracious and kind doesn’t mean I didn’t attempt to spoil him rotten.”

“So this is all—for me?” He couldn’t even begin to count the gifts. It would take him hours to open them all.

“No, I slipped Erised into your tea last night and you’ve been tripping ever since.”

“Too soon,” Albus said, but in truth he was relieved to see Draco’s cruel wit had returned. It had been weeks since they’d woken up together the morning after the Boddington case, and he knew Draco still didn’t trust him, still thought Albus was using him to get his potion back. Albus worked every day to convince him his gratitude and admiration was genuine, but the more affection he attempted, the more distant Draco seemed to get. He had obviously made some progress, though, if Draco had been planning all of this for him.

“C’mon,” Draco replied, gesturing to the food, “eat your breakfast so you can open them.”

Albus dug in. While they ate, he said, “You know, Christmas was always a bit dramatic at our house.”

Draco gave him a disbelieving look. “The Potters? Dramatic? I’d never.”

Albus snorted into his coffee. “Mum was always a bit of a minimalist. She said she’d rather get us one nice gift that we could appreciate than a hundred that would split our gratitude, knowing especially Grandma and Grandpa Weasley would go nuts on us anyway. Dad, who never got any gifts growing up—and he gave us this speech every year—was adamant that Christmas was filled with enough blind materialism as possible. This created something of a rift, in that on Christmas morning we would each take a turn unwrapping our big family gift and thank everyone and tinker with it and all that, but then throughout the day, Dad would find ways of slipping us the rest. I’d get dressed to go to the Burrow and there would be one or two presents in the wardrobe. I’d hop in the bath and there’d be another hanging from the faucet. Open a cupboard, another gift. I don’t know how he did it.”

“Did your mum know?” Draco asked.

“Eventually. At first she was angry, then she turned a blind eye, then, when we grew up and she knew we wouldn’t ruined by, like, an extra pair of self-warming socks, it became a bit of a tradition. She helps him out with it now. I think Teddy’s in on it too.”

“Ugh.” Draco sneered at his forkful of eggs. “That’s disgustingly cute.”

“Isn’t it? Last year was my first Christmas away from them, and you know what I did? I holed up in my flat and took the biggest dose of Erised I’d ever taken, and all day I dreamt I was back there with them. Just a completely normal Christmas. The big gift was a new cauldron, you know, the fancy kind with a temperature indicator that shouts obscenities when something is hot enough. And the little gifts were just stupid things. Candy and fake coins and a little wooden puzzle box.”

“What was in it?”

Albus hesitated as he tried to articulate. Describing Erised in reality felt a bit like translating a language full of concepts that didn’t exist in English. “Erised gives you everything you want, but sometimes when what you want isn’t tangible, it has to distort your perception to understand it, like a dream. When I solved the puzzle, the box opened, and it was...absolution. Not a time-turner or a blank slate or anything symbolic like that. Just being absolved from all I’d done.”

“What did absolution look like?”

“A moonstone.”

Draco stared at him with a smile that turned into a laugh.

“What’s funny about that?”

“Nothing. I just love the way your mind works. A moonstone—primary ingredient in Draught of Peace.”

Albus looked down and tried to hide the flush creeping to his face.

“Sadly, I’m far too much of an egotist to hide your presents,” Draco said. “I want to see you open them.”

When Albus glanced back up, Draco had his wand out and was floating the presents over to the bed. The one that landed in his lap was a flat box covered in shimmering red paper.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” Albus said.

“And then I say, ‘Oh but I wanted to,’ and you go, ‘No, really, this is too much,’ but let’s skip all that. Go on. Be greedy.”

Grinning, Albus tore into the paper and opened the box. Inside was a black suit jacket and matching pants. “Merlin,” he whispered. “I’ve never owned a suit.”

“You’re nearly twenty. I think it’s high time you begin refining your aesthetic.”

The next was a white dress shirt with a silver tie. The next, a pair of dress shoes. A new set of pyjamas. Dress robes (“In case a formal function pops up at random,” Draco said). In each box was another much-needed article of clothing, until Albus had amassed nearly an entire wardrobe of what he imagined was incredibly overpriced attire. Even the t-shirts looked expensive. Then there was a grooming kit, hair product (which Albus opened to confirm by smell it was the same kind Draco used), and cologne (not Draco’s, unfortunately, but still smelled very good). After the clothes came the school supplies: new parchment, quills, a set of differently coloured inks for effective note-taking, and a NEWT practice book.

Draco levitated the largest package toward him. Albus ripped it open to find a dragonhide satchel.

“Undetectable extension charm,” Draco said, “so you can carry all this with you wherever you go.” He nodded to the bag. “Look inside.”

Albus opened it reached in all the way to his shoulder. His fingertips could barely graze the bottom. He came upon a small, thin box, which he pulled out. It was wrapped in simple brown paper, just like it had looked when he was eleven.

“It can’t be,” he said, awed, and ripped open the paper. He lifted the lid of the box. There sat his wand, clean and cushioned in black silk, perfectly intact. “Where did you find it?” He took it out of the box and it showered blue sparks in what appeared to be glee at being reunited with its owner.

“Nicked it from the evidence room at the Ministry. Replaced it with a fake.”

“What if Dad finds out?”

“Your father has the observation skills of a broken teapot. If he can tell the difference between a ten-inch yew with thestral tail hair and a ten-inch ash with troll hair, I’ll wade into the sea and never return.”

It occurred to Albus: clothes, satchel, wand. Draco was offering him all the tools he needed to live independently. Before he could think better of it, he asked, “Does this mean you want me to leave?”

He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t a bark of laughter as Draco reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a tri-folded piece of parchment. “Last gift, I promise.”

“There’s more?”

“Just a little thing.” He passed it over.

Albus gave him a long look and opened it. It was actually three pieces all folded together, covered in very official-looking calligraphy and written in such thick language, he could barely understand it. “What is this?”

“This,” Draco began, pointing to the top piece of parchment, “is a change of address making Malfoy Manor your permanent residence.” He pulled it aside. The second was more dense than the first. “This is a contract appointing me as your defendant in court, should a trial _happen_ to arise. And this—” Then he flipped to the last page, whose scrawl was so tiny Albus would need a magnifying glass to read it. “—is a plea bargain, which states that upon successful completion of your NEWTs, you will be put on house arrest—at your permanent legal residence, mind you—for a year in lieu of Azkaban.”

Albus couldn’t meet Draco’s gaze. “You don’t even know what I’ve done.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said softly. “I can’t give you a puzzle box of absolution, but I can give you this.”

Albus shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. After everything, he still didn’t like Draco to see him cry. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve any of it.”

“What you deserve has nothing to do with it.” Draco touched Albus’ chin and turned it toward him, waited for Albus to look him in the eye. “In my home, we give everything we can to those we love.”


	8. Chapter 8

Last year, being the first without Scorpius, Draco had worked all through Christmas. He moped about all day until Scorpius firecalled him that evening and they talked for hours, Draco cross-legged in front of the fireplace, Scorpius regaling his many sordid Healer-training adventures of which he spoke gleefully but caused Draco to worry. Scorpius in his enthusiasm didn’t ask about Draco’s caseload or how he was adjusting to life alone again in the Manor, but he did ask about Mum. Draco told him she was in New York now and that she would much appreciate a call from him.

This year, however, was much more pleasant. After Albus had opened all of his gifts, Draco left him to get dressed. He returned to the drawing room in one of his new suits—silver shirt, suspenders, no tie and the top button undone which Draco found messy but recognized befitted his age. Draco had to perform a quick tailoring charm to take in the sides of the jacket, hoping that in a few weeks’ time after plying the boy with more food he’d need to let it out again. Albus’ hair was tied back neatly and his face clean-shaven. The effect of the shave and suit made him look somehow both younger and older. Draco was utterly gobsmacked by the sight of him.

“You’re gorgeous,” Draco said.

Albus blushed all the way to the tips of his ears, and did the thing Draco loved where he looked down and grinned and tried to hide it. He was different now than the surly boy at King’s Cross, different than the desperate addict who had fallen through his fireplace two months ago, different than anything Draco could have expected of him. He was better. He was finally, blessedly better.

“Come on,” Draco said, getting greedy now, “show us something good.”

“Okay.” Albus pulled his wand from his breast pocket and bit his lip in thought. Then he pointed it to the far end of the drawing room and said, “ _Expecto Patronum_.”

A silvery blue stream shot forth and manifested into the shape of a horse. A giant horse whose enormous wings slowly unfurled. The Pegasus trotted a few steps, broke into a run, and lifted off. It flew in a miraculous circle around the ceiling and came to a stop in front of Draco, where it folded its wings and bowed its massive head down to as if expecting to be pet. Draco raised his hand to do so, but the Pegasus disappeared.

“Brilliant,” Draco said in awe, watching the silver cloud dissipate around him.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to conjure one,” Albus admitted. “You need a really good memory to hold onto, but all of my good memories are fake. Well— _were_ fake.”

Draco refused to read too deeply into that despite his gut instinct to snog Albus into the floor. Instead he asked, “Did your father teach you?”

“He taught all of us. Patronus lessons began the day we got our wands.”

For a moment Draco felt a familiar surge of disdain toward Potter Senior. It was a parent’s job to protect their children. The idea of teaching them to protect themselves at such a young age, using such powerful magic...

“James and Lily loved it,” Albus explained, as if reading Draco’s mind. “But it terrified me. Conjuring something as powerful and light as a Patronus just meant equal power existed in darkness. That darkness was something to fear rather than understand. It never made sense to me why we would use light to protect ourselves rather than wade into the dark to know it better.”

“Bunch of do-gooders fighting Dark Magic their whole lives. Many people don’t realize—there’s no such thing as evil magic, only wizards who use it for evil deeds.”

Albus stared at him a long moment, smiling in a lopsided way that was both exceedingly boyish and also made Draco want to rip his brand new clothes off. This was becoming a problem.

“Exactly,” Albus said.

 

⚕

 

They spent the remainder of the day playing games while listening to Christmas stories on the wireless, gorging on sweets, and drinking wine. It had been almost twenty years since Draco last played Exploding Snap, and he was just as bad at it now as he was then. When it grew dark and they got hungry for real food, they wandered into the kitchen. There they bickered over what to fix for supper: Draco wanted something moderately healthy and Christmasy; Albus, who for some reason had a perplexing love of Americana, wanted cheeseburgers. Albus won, like always (Draco was finding it increasingly difficult to say no to him), and together they prepared supper. Albus used magic for nearly everything and laughed delightedly at having his wand back. They ate and talked and drank more wine and the only moment Albus seemed to cloud over again was when Draco mentioned Adalene.

“I was expecting her to be here today,” Albus said, thumbing over the lip of his wine glass and staring at it intently. “Where is she?”

“It’s a coin flip between France and Bulgaria. Maybe one then the other. Who knows.”

The kitchen was hot and their suit jackets were discarded somewhere and _Merlin,_ Albus looked good all pink-cheeked, sleeves rolled up, hair loose and wild again, just barely tucked behind his ears.

“You don’t know where your own partner is on Christmas,” Albus said.

Maybe Draco had had a bit too much to drink, but the way Albus said _partner_ made it sound like Ada was more than a business associate (who, yes, moonlighted as Draco’s best friend, though he wouldn’t admit that to anyone, ever, least of all Ada). “We don’t really discuss personal matters that often.”

Albus looked terribly uncomfortable with this for some reason and changed the subject: “I want to give you your present.”

“All right,” Draco said skeptically.

Albus grabbed the bottle of wine and filled his glass again, then topped off Draco’s. When he set it down, he squared his shoulders and said, “Ask me.”

“What?”

“You haven’t asked me your question today. So, go ahead.”

Draco leaned back in his chair. “Are you ready to talk?”

“I am.”

 

⚕

 

Draco retrieved the potion from his desk and met Albus on the sofa.

Albus went pale at the sight of it, eyes full of the agonized longing that had slowly bled away over the past few weeks.

When Draco held it out to him, Albus said, “No, you hold onto it for now. Until—until I’m done telling you everything.” He wiped his palms on his thighs and swallowed heavily. “I don’t actually know where to start.”

“When did the addiction begin?” Draco set the potion bottle on the table and watched as Albus’ gaze stayed focused on it, entire body taut like he might lunge for it at any moment.

“Eleven. My first year at Hogwarts.”

“You brewed Erised when you were eleven?”

“No. I found the mirror.”

“The mirror?”

“Of Erised.” He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head into his hands. Muffled, he said, “I take it back. I can’t do this.”

Draco put his hand on Albus’ knee. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

Albus looked at Draco again. They were very close, and the wine did nothing to help Draco’s impulse to kiss all the sadness out of his expression. “What if you...took it from me?”

“Took what from you?”

Albus reached for Draco’s wand, which was jutting out of his pocket. He put it in Draco’s hand and then pressed the tip to his own temple. “The history book said you were skilled in Occlumency.”

Draco tamped down the urge to recall his aunt invading his mind, forcing his thoughts and feelings into separate rooms that he learned to lock. He didn’t think the key to them existed anymore, that everything good about him was locked away forever, from himself and everyone else. That is, until Albus, who navigated his mind and barged through every locked door effortlessly, without using magic at all.

“Does that mean you can do Legilimency too?” Albus asked.

“I don’t know,” Draco said honestly, his wand still pointed at Albus’ temple. “I’ve had my mind taken over so many times I never wanted to do it to anyone else.”

Albus frowned like he hadn’t considered it. “That just means I trust you with it. That you’ll be able to parse through my memories and won’t look at anything I don’t want you to see.”

“I really don’t think—”

“I’m giving you permission. I want you to see everything that happened so you know I’m not lying. I want you to have access to all of me. I want you to trust me as much as I trust you.”

Draco let out a nervous breath. “I can try. Are you ready?”

Albus nodded. Draco looked into his eyes: bright, fearless, defiant. He realized then that he loved Albus, all of him, even the parts he didn’t know yet. He loved him in ways he didn’t understand, complicated ways that felt like a violent mix of wrongness—delicious wrongness, indulgent wrongness, everything he’d ever secretly wanted wrapped up in a single person. Even if Albus' adoration was all still a ruse to get the potion, even if tonight was their last night together, even if tomorrow he would take the Erised and his wand and all his new things and go into hiding again, Draco would always cherish this, their time together, their perfect Christmas.

He steadied himself and whispered, “ _Legilimens_.”

He was sucked into Albus’ mind immediately with no barriers at all, as if Albus had dragged him in, as if he had been longing for someone to finally see the truth of him. Flickers of memories flooded past, some faces Draco recognized and many he didn’t, until he landed at Hogwarts. In the Room of Requirement.

He had to shut away his own memories of the Vanishing Cabinet, the fire, Vincent’s death, all of it. He didn’t want Albus to have access to them, didn’t want him to see Draco’s betrayal. The Room of Requirement was empty now, the walls and floor made of shimmering onyx as if in permanent mourning. In the center of the room sat a dusty old mirror with an ornate frame, the top of which read, _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._ Draco read it backwards: _I show not your face but your heart’s desire._ In front of it, cross-legged and wide-eyed, sat a young Albus Potter.

Draco approached Albus and knelt beside him. He couldn’t see himself because he wasn’t really there, but he could see Albus playing a game with Scorpius in the mirror, both of them laughing, surrounded by piles of sweets.

“Why not go and play with him?” Draco asked. “He’s your best friend.”

“He wasn’t yet,” young Albus replied. “When I found out he was a Malfoy, I thought he would hate me, think I was a blood traitor or something. It wasn’t until we were back from holiday that we started talking. So for the first few months, I sat here imagining what it was like to be friends with him.”

Albus’ mind shifted and he was at the Manor now, slightly older, entering the front doors for the first time. His father followed, glancing around nervously. The last time he had been there had been unpleasant, to say the least. Albus, however, gazed in awe, craning his neck toward the vaulted ceilings, the columns, the windows, the marble floor. Scorpius ran into the foyer and greeted him with a hug, Draco’s younger self trailing behind.

He looked tired, but not unhappy, and as always remarkably well-dressed. “Good to see you again, Potter.” He turned to Albus. “And you must be Potter Junior. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“ _Dad,_ ” Scorpius said.

“Good of you to invite us,” Potter told Draco.

“Pleasure’s ours,” Draco replied.

“Be good, all right?” Potter said to Albus, then knelt down and looked him very sternly in the eye. “And have fun. I’m serious. No moping about.”

“There’s been a long history of moping in this Manor,” Draco said. “We’re a mope-free zone now. We stay up late, climb on things that should not be climbed on, and eat ice cream for supper.”

“Really?” Albus asked.

Scorpius rolled his eyes. “After supper. He’s being facetious.”

“You’ll take good care of him, I expect,” Potter said to Draco.

“He’ll live like a king.”

“Be sure to have the king owl me every day.”

“Of course.”

“And don’t let him stay up too late. He gets wired.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Draco replied. He caught Albus’ eye and winked.

The memory shifted again.

Albus looked even older now, not quite teenaged but with a depth in his eyes that belied his age. They were back in front of the mirror. Albus was sitting on a blanket and his eyes were red like he’d been crying. Candy wrappers littered the ground beside him. He must have been there for hours.

In the reflection, younger Draco looked lovingly back at him, with one arm around Albus’ shoulders and the other around Scorpius’. Albus was grinning up at him, not quite grown to his full height yet. He looked at Draco as if he were some kind of god. Had Albus always looked at him this way? How had Draco not noticed?

The real Draco asked, “Why, though? What made the Manor so much better?”

“It wasn’t the Manor,” Albus replied, not veering his attention from the mirror. “It was the people in it. You taught Scorpius he was allowed to cry, that he could just feel all the things he felt no matter why he felt them. Back then I wanted to cry all the time for no reason at all. It was just always there, everywhere I went, a cloud above my head blocking out the sun. At the Manor, I knew if I wanted to cry, it would be okay, and no one would tell me to stop or feel better or that I was being irrational. No one was forcing me to be grateful for anything. No one told me about how much worse it used to be and how much better things are now, how much Dad and everyone else sacrificed so I could have the life I have, and that I should be happy. Dad always told me that: I should be happy. I know I should be, but I’m not. I’ve never been happy. I don’t think I know how.”

The reflection warped and changed into familiar, menacing shape: slits for nostrils, pointed teeth, cackling and waving lightning out of the Elder Wand. Somehow he looked nothing like the real Dark Lord, just a cartoonish rendition of him, as if Albus had only seen him in illustrations. Despite this, Draco bit down a wave of nausea and forced the doors of his own memory to stay shut.

“Sometimes,” Albus continued, “I think the part of him that used to be in Dad was given to me.”

Another shift. Now they were in the Great Hall.

“Come on,” Scorpius told Albus, who was steadfastly ignoring him. “Let’s go to Quidditch tryouts. Worst case scenario, we don’t get picked, but we get to fly around all afternoon.”

Albus glanced up and saw James walking past in his red-and-gold captain’s robes. James ruffled Albus’ hair and said, “He’s right, Alby. Might as well. I mean, you did learn from the best.”

“Yes,” Albus agreed, “Mum is an excellent instructor. Too bad you never caught on.”

James snorted a laugh and shoved his shoulder. “Hope to see you out there, buddy.”

Draco watched James walk away. Whenever Albus had spoken of him, it was as if he were a self-aggrandizing nightmare of a brother, constantly torturing and belittling him. But this interaction seemed...nice. And James had looked at Albus, not scornfully, but adoringly, with hope in his eyes like he really did want Albus to try out for Quidditch. Like under the surface he was already concerned for Albus’ wellbeing.

“Go on ahead,” Albus told Scorpius. “I have some homework to do.”

Another shift and they were back in the Room of Requirement. This time the mirror showed Albus flying around the Quidditch pitch, playing Keeper to Scorpius’ Seeker.

“Why didn’t you just try out?” Draco demanded. “No one was stopping you. They were _encouraging_ you.”

“The mirror had already taken over by then. I skipped classes to come here, meals, homework. No chance of failure in the mirror. Couldn’t disappoint anyone here.”

The memories began shifting rapidly, days upon days of Albus staring into the mirror, growing and changing, while his desires changed just as quickly. Draco couldn’t catch all of it, but he could see the slow deterioration over time, the hunch of his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes. His expression glazed over until he looked like a lifeless doll forsaken to stare at its own reflection for eternity. The memories slowed and halted to a stop. He looked to be about sixteen now.

Then McGonagall arrived.

“Albus Potter!” she shouted. “You have been missing for _days_!”

It was like she wasn’t there. Albus couldn’t tear his attention from the mirror.

James, Lily, Potter Senior, and Potter’s wife arrived next, followed by Granger and the other Weasley. They crowded around Albus, hovering a step away like he might break if they touched him. They spoke in whispers that weren’t real words; this memory was fuzzier than the rest, wobbling at the corners and making it difficult for Draco to focus.

It was such a cruel to bring the entire caravan to the boy’s darkest hour. Even though they couldn’t hear him, Draco found himself shouting, “Well? Stop gawking at him! Do something!”

Then Scorpius entered and said, “Do you all need to be here? Really?” He broke through the circle around Albus and wrapped a scarf around his eyes, tying it at the back and immediately circling his arms around him, bracing himself as if he knew what was coming next.

Albus screamed. And thrashed. And wept. Scorpius held him. Then Ginny knelt down and held him too. Potter followed, then the rest of them, all holding Albus, waiting until he calmed.

Another shift and they were in the infirmary. Two people were whispering behind a curtain that offered Albus some privacy. He was only pretending to be asleep.

“How long have you known?” McGonagall demanded.

The shadow outline of Scorpius looked at his watch. “About two hours. Took a quick piss on my way to your office. Does the delay warrant punishment? I washed my hands too, so tack that on.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” McGonagall replied.

“If I’d known you’d call the entirety of Dumbledore’s bloody Army, I wouldn’t have said anything. There’s such a thing as discretion, you know.”

“They are his _family_ , Malfoy, and he’s not of age. I encourage you to learn your place.”

“My place is beside him. If you want me to leave, you’ll have to drag me out.”

Draco had never been prouder.

“That can be arranged.”

Footsteps from a half-dozen pair of feet followed before Scorpius could reply. Potter said, “Hagrid has the mirror. Hermione’s doing some research, then she’s going to destroy it.”

Albus curled on his side and let out a quiet, broken cry.

The memory shifted to the Slytherin dormitories. Albus was lying in bed, looking nearly as sick as he did in the infirmary. Scorpius was perched at the edge of the bed with a box in hand.

“I got you something,” he said. “To help, hopefully.”

Albus sat up with a wince and opened the box. From it, he pulled a long gold chain with a round pendant at the bottom.

“It opens,” Scorpius said, taking the locket and prying it open.

The flicker of a nearby lamp reflected on the inside of the locket, which bounced a circle of light onto Albus’ face. “Is this…?”

“They tried smashing it first,” Scorpius said. “Gryffindors, right? And while they were standing around with their thumbs up their arses wondering why that didn’t work, I nicked a corner of it.”

Albus moved it around, closer to his face and then further away. “I can’t see anything in it.”

“Well, no. It’s more for sentimental purposes. I know how much it meant to you, how much comfort it offered.” He ducked his head and added, “And—I’m sorry I told them about it.”

“It’s okay,” Albus said.

“You’d been gone so long. I didn’t know what to do. I went to the Room of Requirement but it wouldn’t open for me, I think because your need of its security trumped my need to find you. You were nearly starving by the time we got to you.”

Albus continued to stare into the locket. “You told McGonagall you didn’t know about it.”

“I do have some sense of self-preservation. I didn’t want to get expelled.”

Albus finally tore his gaze from the mirror to hug Scorpius. “Thank you, Scorp. For the locket. And saving my life I guess.”

“Do you think things will get better now?”

“I hope so.”

The memories moved quickly again, like shuffling a deck of cards. Albus looking at Scorpius’ sleeping form, a bag over his shoulder and the locket around his neck, then leaving the dormitories and sneaking out the secret passage under the lake. His head down, hands in his pockets, navigating through crowded foot traffic in London. In a filthy flat with no furniture, surrounded by books open all around him, a cauldron in front of him with plastic pipes leading from it to a candle, the locket open and hanging dangerously close to the flame. In the same flat, holding up his first bottle of Erised before putting it to his lips and tilting his head back. Vomiting into a toilet. Surrounded by alchemy materials and books again. Staring at a long line of filled potion bottles. Back on the street, in an alley, handing a bottle off to a Muggle, who slipped him a roll of bills in return. Tossing back potion after potion, day after day, sun up, sun down, breaking only to sell more, make more, take more. Selling to an undercover Auror. Running. In Diagon Alley seeing his wanted poster for the first time. Running, and running, and running, not just from Aurors but Muggles now too, who demanded more potion from him. Getting beaten by three Muggles, bleeding and curled up on the dirty floor of his flat, taking his second to last bottle from his pocket and downing it. One bottle remaining, running through Diagon Alley, turning into an empty shop. Getting hit with the Cruciatus Curse just as green flames engulfed him. Tumbling out of a fireplace, hearing Draco’s footsteps approach before passing out.

Draco was pushed out of Albus’ mind then. He felt like he’d run into the brick wall entrance of Platform 9 ¾. He was panting and shaking and knew that only moments had passed but it felt like years. Albus had fallen back against the arm of the sofa, covering his eyes, just as out of breath as Draco.

“You _idiot_ ,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “You bloody fucking _moron_.”

Albus sat back up and said, “I told you!”

“You make it seem as if you’re all alone! Your father loves you. Your mother. Your bloody siblings. The _Minister of fucking Magic_. And my son! My son put his neck on the chopping block for you, and you abandoned him! You were his best friend!”

“I know! I fucking know, all right?”

“Do you have any _idea_ how much trouble you’re in?”

“You said you could help! You wrote a plea bargain!”

“That was before I knew you’d broken eight hundred laws. You put not only yourself at risk but the lives of countless Muggles. And _all of wizardkind_. Do you know what would happen if your potion got into the hands of Muggle scientists? Do you? Can you imagine if they replicated it? Distilled its magical essence and learned to control it? How much of it is out there? How much did you sell?”

Now Albus was near tears. Draco wished he could feel guilty but his fury and fear blinded him, the same that made him capable of all his teenage bullying, that blocked his path to empathy.

“Not a lot, I swear. Twenty, twenty-five bottles, max. I took most of it myself. I only sold it to shady people. No one with any connections to—to scientists or whatever.”

“And a bloody Auror.”

Albus wiped his tears away with the flat of his hand. Draco took several deep breaths and tried to remember everything that had happened up to this point, all the loving smiles Albus had given him, the work he’d put into his recovery, the thrill on his face when opening gifts this morning. Draco had to bite back everything he wanted to say, that Albus was using him just as he had used his son, and he deserved to rot in Azkaban for what he’d done. This was a side effect of Occlumency: anger, cruelty, narrow-mindedness. It required Draco to zero his entire identity into smaller and smaller sections until he wasn’t sure he really existed.

Albus pressed the potion bottle into Draco’s palm, closed his fingers over it, and held his hand between both of his own. “This is what I want to give you. The last of it. You can take it, or throw it away, or give it to the Ministry. I don’t care. I’ve been addicted to Erised half my life. I just want to get better.”

Draco’s anger bled away. Giving him the potion meant Albus wasn’t using him, his affection wasn’t feigned, and he probably wouldn’t be skipping town the next morning. Draco may not completely trust him yet, but this, at least, gave him hope.

He slotted his other hand into Albus’. “We’ll figure something out.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end note.

On New Year’s Eve, Draco had abandoned Albus to go to some party for rich important people with Ada accompanying him. Albus, maybe or maybe not seething with jealousy, raided the wine cellar and proceeded to drink directly from a bottle of something something 1867 (the label was too dusty to read) while walking around the entire Manor stark naked, just because he could. He sang throughout the corridors until his voice went hoarse. The portraits gawked at him and shielded their eyes and clutched their pearls. By the time he had finished off the wine, he was terribly drunk and completely lost, poking random objects and asking them, “Did Voldemort touch you? How did you feel about that?”

When he took a piss, he asked the toilet, “Did Voldemort piss in you? Did Voldemort piss at all, or was it just, like, dust by that point?” These were the kinds of things history books left out, and he vowed—loudly, to the toilet—that he would one day write a book even _more_ thorough than _A Very Thorough History of Dark Magick_ which would include things like the benign maladies of famous Dark wizards.

“The people ought to know whom amongst the Death Eaters were lactose intolerant,” he declared, and flushed.

He somehow found his way to Draco’s quarters. By now all the portraits had run off to other places with presumably less nudity, so there was no one to witness him asking the door, “Did Voldemort sleep in you?” and opening it. “Perhaps he just hung upside down like a bat—”

He stopped short. This could not possibly be Draco’s room. Albus had expected some kind of series of rooms, like a labyrinth, starting with a sitting area, and then a walk-in wardrobe, and a lavatory as big as a house. He was not expecting what he actually saw: a room smaller than the guest bedroom in which Albus slept, smaller than Scorpius’ room, smaller than his own flat. He bet Griselda didn’t even sleep in a room this small. There was a bed, a bedside table, a single lamp, and a window that overlooked the grounds. It was by far the most modern space in the house. The walls were made of plaster rather than stone, the floor wood instead of marble, and the furnishings looked like they came from IKEA, which Albus only knew because he had the misfortune of visiting one shortly after he had run away. The bed—all white linen—was unmade, and a Slytherin banner hung over it. A pair of trainers were discarded in the corner, which was odd because Albus had been living here for two months and never once saw Draco wear trainers, nor do any activity that might require them. It looked like the bedroom of a young bachelor, not a distinguished master of wizarding law who took up at least five pages of every history book written in the last twenty-five years. And Albus knew this because in the past few months he had read _all of them._ Even, begrudgingly, the ones written about his father. (He had gotten a strange thrill out of seeing himself referred to in the most detailed of the books as “the middle child, sort of,” which was to say all the other texts forgot about Teddy.)

Albus stepped into the room as if it were some kind of exhibit and closed the door behind him in case any of the nearby portraits returned. He realized it was probably a weird thing to be naked in your best friend’s father’s bedroom, but he pushed this thought aside and proudly muttered, “Fuck yeah, Occlumency” to himself.

He picked up a framed photograph from the bedside table. It was a picture of Draco giving Scorpius a piggyback ride. As a full-grown adult. At his Hogwarts graduation ceremony. They looked appallingly alike, but whereas Scorpius smiled unabashedly with his whole face, Draco at his most pleased could only manage a polite upturn of his lips, eyes crinkled and happy despite all the horrors that lay behind them. The sun was shining and the castle could be seen in the background; in the corner, just out of the frame, stood the very Astronomy Tower where Draco had failed to kill Dumbledore.

Albus set the frame down. Three dirty tea cups with dried leaf remnants were clumped together at the edge of the nightstand, underneath them countless rings of cups past worn into the wood. There was also a book, a tattered paperback whose spine was broken in five spots, the corners frayed:  _Making Heads and Tales of It: Salacious Stories of Wizards & Witches Gone Wild, Part III _ by Rita Skeeter. On top of it rested a small pair of reading glasses. A handful of dusty coins and a single black button occupied a dish by the lamp.

Albus sat on the bed and continued staring at the small array of items, imagining Draco in this tiny room, propped up by pillows, glasses perched on his nose, reading a trashy book he’d already read half a dozen times and drinking tea. As much as Albus admired the outward-facing Draco—clever, composed, mercilessly intimidating—he also adored this one: the man who chose one of the smallest rooms of his entire manor for himself, who fathered the best friend Albus could ever ask for, who could talk passionately for hours about the most boring topics in the world, who snorted in a completely undignified way on the rare occasion you could get him laugh, who wiped his mouth nervously with his napkin after every bite of food, who had never won a single game of Exploding Snap in his whole life, who had gotten access to Albus’ entire mind, every awful bit of it, and didn’t veer a single step away from the memories offered to him.

Albus sucked in a breath; it felt like he couldn’t get any air into his chest. The room began to spin, whether from his drunkenness or newfound panic he didn’t know. He lay on the bed, dragging the covers to his chin, rolling over and pressing his face into Draco’s pillow. This was it, he thought. This was how it felt to be in love. To want someone so much that just being in a place they had once been brought you unbearable pleasure. And it was real, it was all real. This was where Draco really slept, where he dreamed, where he maybe fantasized about Albus while he brought himself off. The thought alone made Albus shift his hips over the soft sheets, one small movement, and another, until he was so hard he thought he might come already. He’d make a mess of the bed and Draco would return home to find it. Furious, he’d take Albus and push his face into the mattress, right over the stain, and say, _Look what you did, you vile little slut._ Then he’d pull his belt off and crack it across Albus’ arse, over and over until he cried.

Albus breathed in the smell of Draco’s shampoo, his ridiculously expensive hair gel, his sweat, his skin. He rolled his hips in desperate, quick movements, panting, imagining Draco pulling his cock out, sinking it into Albus’ arse, gripping his hair and yanking so hard that Albus’ body bent like a bow.

“Oh fuck, _fuck_ ,” Albus said, past the point of no return, every muscle in his body tensed. He grasped violently for one of the tea cups and lifted to his knees, cock in hand. He caught himself just in time, letting out a low groan as he came into the cup, thinking of Draco coming inside of him and whispering in his ear, _Don’t let it happen again._

“Fuck,” he said once more, nowhere near as satisfied as he wanted to be, and collapsed on the bed.

 

⚕

 

New Year’s Day found Albus in Draco’s study, draped over the chaise lounge with a pack of ice on his head and a book in his hands. He was reading the same paragraph on the etymology of a logogram that looked like an ice cream cone over and over, unable to think past wanting ice cream long enough to understand it, while simultaneously biting back a wave of nausea at the thought of eating anything.

The night prior he had ended up finding a black silk bathrobe somewhere, drinking another bottle and a half of wine, and cheersing himself at midnight to the sound of “Auld Lang Syne” on the wireless. He had gone to bed before Draco returned home and woke up after he left again, if he had come home at all. Probably not, seeing as how he was with Ada. An ugly feeling curled in Albus’ gut and made the existing pain in his temples pulse.

The fireplace crackled loudly and a voice from within said, “Happy New Year!”

Albus was so startled that he rolled off the chaise lounge and hit the floor with a heavy thud.

“Dad?” the fireplace said.

The fireplace sounded remarkably like Scorpius. Albus was grateful an armchair was obscuring his view, because he was certain that if he looked, he’d see Scorpius’ face. And if he saw Scorpius’ face, that would mean Scorpius could see his. And _that_ meant having to confront the terrible things he had done to his best friend, make him an inadvertent accomplice in his crimes, and potentially admit to being in love with his father.

It seemed like a bit too much to handle for someone who just hours before had been naked, drunk, and lost in his own house whilst talking to inanimate objects.

“Albus?” Scorpius asked. “Is that you?”

Albus froze.

“Albus Severus Potter, you _giant bag of dicks._ Get over here right now or I swear on my mother’s grave I will come there and beat your arse.”

“Your mother isn’t dead,” Albus said. He crawled out from behind the armchair but didn’t make it very far. He could only prop himself up against it pathetically, but at least he was facing the fireplace. And just as he predicted, there was Scorpius’ flaming fucking head, yelling at him.

“You’ve been gone for over a year! A year, Albus! Your father owls me every week asking if I’ve heard from you! And it turns out you’re in my own bloody _house?_ Merlin help me, if this isn’t good—”

“You’ll beat my arse, I know, you already said that.”

“No, I was going to say I’ll turn you in to the Ministry, collect the reward money, and hire a whole team of ex-Death Eaters to _beat your arse_.” He barely let himself take a breath. “And good god, why are you wearing my father’s clothes? Does he know you’re there? Where is he? Did you kill him? Albus, did you kill my father?”

“I did not kill your father,” Albus said. He looked down at himself. He was wearing a pair of trousers, a dress shirt, and a waistcoat in hopes Draco would come home and look at him the way he had on Christmas. Albus wanted to have stayed in the bathrobe and let Draco find him like that, but now he was glad he chickened out. That would have made his present predicament even more difficult to explain.

“And they’re not his clothes. They’re mine. He just...bought them for me.”

“My dad bought you clothes.”

“For Christmas.”

Scorpius’ voice climbed an entire octave. “You’ve been there since _Christmas?_ ”

“I’ve been here since October.”

Scorpius nodded to himself. “That’s it. That’s really it. I am going to kill you. Then I’m going to raise you from the dead. And I’m going to kill you again.”

“Scorp, just—” Albus pulled the locket out from underneath his shirt and held it up. It glinted in the firelight. “Remember this?”

Scorpius stared at it. “Albus, no. Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

“I did. I did do what you think I did.”

“You really finished it? You made the potion?” Scorpius’ expression was difficult to decipher, but Albus was sure he sensed some level of awe. During the Legilimency, he had hid all the memories from Draco that indicated the level of participation Scorpius played in the whole affair, which was in fact quite a lot. Albus, of course, had shown Scorpius the mirror right away when they became friends in their first year, but Scorpius never understood the appeal. The first time he looked into it, he said he only saw their actual reflections, a literal mountain of sweets towering behind them.

“That’s cool,” Scorpius had said. “I’m hungry. Can’t wait for supper.”

As the years passed, Scorpius occasionally visited Albus in the Room of Requirement. Every time he glanced in the mirror, whatever he saw only offered him another item on his unending to-do list. Once, he saw his grandmother and said, “I’ll go owl her,” and went off to write her a letter. Another time he smiled and saw a row of perfectly straight teeth while his real ones stood crookedly in his mouth. “I’ll ask my dad about that,” he said, and a week later, had them fixed. In fourth year, he saw himself with a girl named Mabel, and asked her out the next day. When she politely declined but made a counter-offer of friendship, he arrived in the Great Hall that evening saying, “I made a new friend!”

And so on. The most complicated desire he ever saw in the mirror was his grandfather, shortly after he had passed. Scorpius touched the mirror, indulged himself for an entire minute, then stepped away.

“He lived a long, full life,” Scorpius said. “And he spent his final decades making all the amends he could. I think that’s all anyone like us can really ask.”

The potion was actually Scorpius’ idea. Albus was running late to the final Quidditch match of the season, Hufflepuff versus Slytherin, having been held up by a lengthy vision of Professor O’Toole in the mirror.

Scorpius told him, “Wouldn’t it be great if you could take it with you?”

As they walked hurriedly to the Quidditch pitch, Albus asked, “You mean like a potion? How would that work?”

“Alchemy, I guess. I don’t know much about it, but it’s just a transference of the elements, right? And it’s a mirror. Mirrors are made of glass, which is sand, which is earth.”

“I disagree,” Albus countered, “it’s not the mirror itself. It’s the reflection.”

“Say that’s true. What’s a reflection made of? Like, what makes you _see_ a reflection?”

“Light.”

“And what’s—”

“Fire.”

“Yes, exactly.” Scorpius glanced around to make sure no one could overhear them. They were alone, but he still lowered his voice as he said, “Do you think Daddy O’Toole might help you with it?”

Albus could feel his entire body run hot. “Will you quit calling him that?”

“I’ll quit calling him that when I stop overhearing you moaning his name while you wank.”

“Scorp!”

Scorpius threw his hands up in defence. “I’m just saying! You’re ten stones of daddy issues in a five stone cauldron. No one should expect anything less from Harry Potter’s son.”

“I hate you.”

From that moment on, Albus became obsessed with alchemizing the mirror. He knew he could never have Professor O’Toole, but in the mirror, they hooked up every day. If he could distill the mirror’s magic into a potion, and transform the two-dimensional illusion into a three-dimensional delusion, he would, quite literally, never want for anything again. Scorpius spent the following years supporting him blindly. As a Prefect, he snuck Albus into the restricted section of the library and showed him where to look. He covered for Albus when he would miss classes. He woke Albus up at the library’s closing hour and dragged him to the dormitories. He let Albus imagine Professor O’Toole while they fucked, a rare occurrence born of boredom and horniness that neither talked about during daylight hours, and which Albus had locked up tightly while Draco was in his head.  

Then, when the mirror was finally destroyed, he made the locket. Albus had cut off the end of their conversation before Draco could see it: “You’ve got to finish it,” Scorpius told him. “You’re too close to turn back.”

The night of Albus’ seventeenth birthday, the night he ran away, he had spoken to Scorpius before bed and told him the plan. It was the first time in their entire friendship Scorpius had shown any doubt.

“You can’t just _leave_ ,” he said. “You have to take your NEWTs. You have to graduate.”

“What happened to ‘far-reaching consequences’ and ‘extreme medicinal potential’ and ‘advancing wizardkind’?” Albus said. “Isn’t that more important than passing some stupid test? If you want me to finish the potion, I need supplies I can’t get here and a space no one can find me.”

Scorpius looked stricken. “How will _I_ find you?”

“You won’t. Not for a while anyway.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Scorpius said, realization dawning. “It’s taken over you.”

“Scorp...”

“No, really, that’s what they said when you were in the infirmary. I didn’t believe them. I told them you still spent most of your time with me, in your classes, doing your homework. You told me you were fine and I _believed_ you. How did I miss this? I’m supposed to be a bloody _Healer_ —” His focus grew distant as he concluded, mostly to himself, “You’re abandoning me for the mirror.”

“You’re right,” Albus admitted sadly. He held the locket up. “But, when put in the right hands, this could still help a lot of people, even if it’s destroying me. Dad and McGonagall and everyone else are just afraid of what it can do, but I’m not. I want to know how far I can take it.”

Scorpius hid his face in his hands. It was the only time Albus had ever seen him cry. “I don’t want you to go.”

Albus held him, just as Scorpius had held him the last time they were in front of the mirror. “I’ll come back,” he said. “I promise.”

Now he was back, and wanted by the Ministry, and everything was terrible, and Scorpius was looking at him in the fireplace with the same amount of sadness and anger Albus had left him with.

“Yeah, I made the potion,” Albus said.

“And?” There was derision in his tone but Albus knew him well enough to hear the anticipation in it too.

“It was amazing. Better than I could have ever predicted. And much, much more addictive.”

“Oh, no.”

“Things went south pretty quickly.”

“Tell me everything.”

Albus took a deep breath and launched into the whole story, starting with the flat in London, then accumulating all the supplies (here Scorpius had questions), then finding the rarest of rare books on alchemy (more questions), and finally the process of brewing the potion itself (even _more_ questions). Then running out of money, facing starvation, selling the first bottle to his Muggle neighbor for a tenner, followed by an exponential amount of demand he couldn’t feasibly supply. Then the undercover Auror, getting hunted by the Muggle equivalent of Snatchers, and running.

“How did you end up at my house?” Scorpius asked.

Here Albus looked away and scratched the back of his neck. “I said ‘home’ in the Floo and this is where it took me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“And my dad took you in? Just like that?”

“Not exactly. We made a deal. He’d give me back my bottle of Erised if I told him everything that happened, but I thought if I told him he’d throw me out.”

“So he kept it.”

“Yeah.”

“And, what, you’ve just been following him around the Manor?”

“Sort of?” Albus’ face was running hot. He hoped the glow of the fire would hide it. “I went through some really bad withdrawal, then I got better, then that’s when I began following him around, and he got annoyed and made me start studying for my NEWTs—”

Scorpius grinned. “That is the most Draco Malfoy thing I’ve ever heard.”

“—and on Christmas I told him everything. Well, not _told_ him. I let him use Legilimency on me.”

Scorpius’ grin fell into a horrified grimace.

“No! No, it’s not like that. I hid, like, ninety percent of your part in it. He thinks I betrayed you.”

“You did!”

“Not as badly as I made it seem!”

“That still doesn’t change the fact you let my father _root through your brain._ Ergo, you are close enough to my father now to _trust_ him rooting through your brain.”

Albus could have used a sudden poltergeist. A Whomping Willow crushing the Manor right over the study. He would even take Adalene barging in asking where the spare rolls of toilet paper were stored. Anything.

“Am I the only one who thinks it’s weird you’re friends with my dad now?” Scorpius added.

“Well…”

Then followed longest and most awkward silence of Albus’ entire life.

“ _No_ ,” Scorpius whispered.

“It’s not a big deal!” Albus blurted out.

“You’ve gone Daddy O’Toole on my father.”

“He has a girlfriend anyway!”

“What? Who?”

“Adalene. You know, French-Bulgarian, high heels, lipstick. Hangs around here a lot.”

“Adalene is my dad’s partner.”

“That’s what I said.”

“ _Legal_ partner.”

“I didn’t think they were that serious.”

“You moron—look, it does not serve my best interests at all to clarify this. They practice law together. They are business associates. Co-workers. That’s it.”

“But he’s so affectionate towards her. I overheard him telling her how much he adores her.”

“One, Half-Veela. Can make anyone wonky. Two, she’s a lesbian. Three, my dad is gay. You, the queerest of queer _should have picked up on this_.”

The ensuing silence was less awkward, namely because Albus was about to jump out of his own skin in excitement.

“On a completely unrelated note,” Albus said, “how would you feel if I fucked your father?”

“I’ve got to say, Albus, not great.”

“Think about it. You trust him more than anyone else in the world. And I’m your best friend. Best possible combo.”

“You ran away, missed my graduation _and_ my farewell party, abandoned me for over a year, then moved into my house without telling me and developed a crush on my dad. And you haven’t apologized for any of it. I’m sure something in there is grounds for terminating a best friendship.”

The stabbing feeling came back again, the emptiness of withdrawal, or perhaps the emptiness that drew him to the mirror to begin with. He wanted to hide inside Erised and never come back, find a vision where he’d never done any of this, where Scorpius still loved and trusted him, where he believed he deserved Scorpius’ love and trust.

“I really am sorry, Scorp. You have no idea. While I was gone, so many of my visions involved the two of us doing the stupidest things, like, I don’t know, going to Hogsmeade. Pranking James. Studying in the common room. Sneaking to the kitchens at midnight and jinxing Filch on our way back. In one of them, we seriously just threw jelly beans into each other’s mouths from further and further distances.”

Scorpius got that look on his face again, like the night Albus left. His chin trembled and he took in a quick breath. “How far did we get?”

“Well it was Erised, so we made it the whole length of the Quidditch pitch.”

“I missed you so much, Albus. I’ve been so worried.”

“I missed you too. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I want to get better, though, and I’d like the opportunity to make it up to you if you’ll let me.”

“I don’t know. I’ll—I have to think about it.” The fire flickered while Scorpius ducked out of the fireplace to wipe his nose with his sleeve. He came back and said, “Where’s the last of it, though? You said my dad made a deal. Surely he honoured his side of it.”

“He did. I gave it back to him.”

“Good—”

Albus heard something on Scorpius’ end of the fire.

“Look, I’ve got to go,” Scorpius said. “Just, one last thing.”

“Sure,” Albus said. “Anything.”

“If you break my father’s heart, I will break your fucking face.”

“Is that a yes to my earlier inquiry?”

“It’s a ‘given that both parties are consenting adults, I am choosing to make it none of my business, but if I hear a single word about any bedroom goings-on between my father and best friend I will sequester myself to Antarctica and never return.’”

Albus grinned. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for references to underage sex: Albus as a 15 year old has sexual fantasies about a professor (not described); Albus admits that he and Scorpius used to sleep together (also not described, ages not specified).


	10. Chapter 10

Draco had gone to Ervine Klump’s New Year’s Eve party, which he endured unhappily at the behest of Ada because they wanted his business. The Ministry had accused Klump of breaking some obscure law involving the installation of magical plumbing under sacred Centaurian grounds and breaching some kind of treatise from the fifteenth century that Draco didn’t even know existed. Klump, having something of a monopoly on the business of magical plumbing, didn’t seem particularly concerned with the accusation, intending to buy his way out of the situation by donating a sizeable amount of plumbing maintenance to the Ministry, which desperately needed it (the toilet entrances had been randomly spitting people out in Australia for years). He was more keen on defending himself in court than appointing someone to do it for him, because, he insisted, he had done nothing wrong. The land after all had been unused for decades.

“It’s difficult to provide reasoning in defence of yourself if you’re going by your own moral code and not the rules set out for you by wizard law,” Draco had told him, somewhat hypocritically, seeing as how the Centaurian grounds treatise was news to him as well.

Ada cut him off before he could continue. “What my partner means to say is that you are a busy man, and this may take many hearings. We can take it off your hands.”

Klump, who was not at all affected by Ada’s Veela-ishness, and after more alcohol than Draco had ever seen a single person drink in one night, finally, near three o’clock in the morning, signed a contract for their services.

By that point Draco insisted on Apparating home to check on Albus, but in his irritation with Klump had attempted misguidedly to keep up with him in number of drinks imbibed, and Ada wouldn’t allow it. Klump put him up for the night in one spare room and Ada in another, along with a few other guests who had long since passed out on various pieces of furniture.

Draco arrived home the next afternoon to a yet unseen version of Albus Potter, who proceeded to climb to a whole new tier of nuisance, hovering mere centimetres away at all times, yammering on about nothing, all while Draco nursed a pounding headache and bit back the unceasing urge to shut the boy up by shoving his cock down his throat.

At one point he was going to the pantry for some Pain Relieving Draught, and when he turned around Albus was right behind him.

“What is wrong with you today?” Draco asked.

Albus’ eyes flicked down to Draco’s mouth. “Nothing. Have I ever told you about my favourite professor? He was a substitute Potions Master.”

“Please, Albus, I’m hungover and I just need some quiet.” Draco headed back to his study, where he planned to close his eyes and listen to the wireless on a very low volume. 

Albus followed him. “Do you remember what happened the last time you were hungover?”

Draco stopped walking and Albus ran into his back. He took a deep breath and willed himself to calm. “I don’t think we need to discuss it.”

“Why not? It was fun.” Albus ran a hand across Draco’s back as he circled to his front, bringing his other arm up so he had them both slung around his neck. Draco clenched his hands into fists in an effort not to grab Albus by the hips and kiss him. This battle was becoming more torturous by day.

“It was a mistake,” Draco said.

“It didn’t have to be.” Albus was staring at his mouth again. “How do I look today?”

He was wearing a waistcoat, no tie, too many buttons of his dress shirt undone. His sleeves were rolled up, hair pulled back, lips cherry red from biting at them compulsively. The personification of a wet dream. There were so many things Draco wanted to say, and more importantly do, but instead he put on the coldest expression he could muster and said, “Perfectly adequate.”

Albus groaned in frustration and stepped away to let Draco continue towards the study. “You’re no fun.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a sad old beast who wants to be left alone.”

“Does that make me the beauty?”

“You’re the pipsqueak teacup.” When Albus didn’t reply right away, Draco spun on him and added, “Speaking of, I seem to remember three teacups in my room yesterday, and only two today. Know where the other one ran off to?”

Albus turned so red he had to duck his head to hide it. It had been obvious Albus went into his bedroom, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to reprimand him.

“That’s what I thought. If you’ll excuse me,” Draco continued, entering his study, “I’m going to relax for a bit.” Albus opened his mouth to interject, and Draco added, “Alone,” then closed the door in his face.

 

⚕

 

Albus had been doing so well up to this point, eating all the food offered to him, studying without fidgeting noisily with whatever he could get his hands on, all in all _behaving,_ seemingly just to impress Draco. But now that sweet, obedient boy had fled with the old year and with the new came a demon who kept giving him this _look,_ day after day, the one he had given Draco in Erised all those weeks ago, as if he were begging with his eyes to be bent over something and fucked. He made sexual innuendo constantly, walked around the Manor in barely any clothes at all even though it was freezing, held Draco’s gaze for far longer than their exchanges warranted, and in all had turned into a complete monster hellbent on driving Draco mad.

Draco was not falling for it. He would not succumb to his own desires, to whatever Albus was trying to get out of him. Even if it was no longer a ploy to get his potion back, it was something. Guilt, maybe, or conversely, gratitude. A harmless crush born of boredom. And, even if these affections were real—if this _feeling_ Draco had for him was genuine and somehow requited—the matter still stood: Draco would never do anything to hurt Scorpius, and he was fairly certain sleeping with his son’s best friend, as tenuous as their relationship now was, fell in the category of one of the shittiest things a father could do.

He would not fuck Albus Potter. He would _not._

Even though he made it a habit to kneel by Draco’s chair after Griselda had gone to bed, his head resting on Draco’s thigh, Draco playing with his hair while reading through case files. Even though he bit his bottom lip whenever Draco made the mistake of looking at him too long. Even though he came to Draco with questions from his textbooks, asking for clarification on some obscure topic he happened to know quite a lot about, and listened intently until they both realized, stunned, that hours had passed. Even though Draco found evidence every time he left the Manor that Albus had gone into his bedroom. Even though Draco could smell him on his sheets at night, or just the illusion of it, taunting him, making him imagine what kind of awful things he’d done to himself in his bed. Even though a blizzard overtook the grounds and they went outside for a walk but proceeded to chuck snowballs at one another, tumbling into a wrestling match that Draco too easily won. Even though he pinned Albus in a valley of soft snow, gloved fingers intertwined in his own, flakes in their eyelashes and faces ruddy red and numb with cold. Even though he asked over cocoa later that evening, his legs across Draco’s lap, “You have the plea written. What are we waiting for?” to which Draco wanted to say, _I can’t risk losing you,_ but actually said, “My caseload is too heavy right now.”

He knew that soon, Albus would have to turn himself in, then name Draco as his attorney and deny he had received any assistance while he’d been at large. And Draco would have to be willing to pull every favour anyone had ever owed him, forego sleep for weeks, and change the rotation of the earth itself to keep Albus from Azkaban. Not even the grace of the Minister, were it fully her choice, would be able to deny the justice due to him.

Weeks passed and Draco still—no matter how badly he really, really wanted to—would not fuck Albus Potter.

And then February came, and he could no longer handle it.

They were in the kitchen preparing supper, Draco keeping an eye on two chicken breasts searing in a pan while he charmed some knives to cut up the vegetables. Albus had made a mess of the kitchen table where he had stationed himself for the day, studying whilst plowing through Draco’s snack supply (he had finally gained back most of the weight he had lost yet continued to eat as if he ran a daily marathon). Books and scrolls littered the table from end to end, and several items had been knocked to the floor. He had taken to plundering the clean laundry before Griselda could put it away and stealing Draco’s clothes. He was wearing Draco’s favourite jumper and the pair of threadbare jeans he had first arrived in, with no shoes or socks despite the frigid temperature of the floors in winter. Though he was only an inch shorter than Draco, he was still marginally thinner, and the jumper, which was slightly too big for Draco as well, seemed to swallow him. It was a good thing the knives were handling most of the cooking themselves because Draco couldn’t tear his eyes away from the smudge of black ink on Albus’ cheek.

Everything about this situation infuriated him: Albus’ caustic petulance which radiated from him even in moments of peace, Draco’s unceasing desire to be near the boy all the time in spite of this (perhaps even _because_ of it), the simple domesticity they had seemed to effortlessly conjure between them. He forced himself to look anywhere else, his hands, the chicken, the goddamn ceiling.

“I need you to clean off the table,” he said. “Supper will be ready shortly.”

“In a bit.”

“No,” Draco said, “ _now_.”

The knives shyly stopped chopping as if they’d done something wrong.

“Yeah, sure,” Albus replied, nonplussed, “just give me a minute.”

“Albus Severus Potter, while you are in my home you will follow my orders and obey my command, is that understood?”

Albus kept his eyes on his book, as if he hadn’t even heard.

“And you will _look at me_ when I’m _speaking to you_.”

Finally Albus glanced up. He closed his textbook with a melodramatic slam. “Okay.”

“Not _okay._ The correct response is _yes, Mr Malfoy_.”

Albus stood and began stacking his books. “Oh, so now you’re Mr Malfoy again.”

“Seeing as how we’ve become a bit too familiar, I think that might be best.” He cringed at his own words; defamiliarizing himself from Albus was the last thing he wanted, but if he didn’t pull away now, his willpower wouldn’t hold up.

“Someone’s in a bad mood.”

Draco ignored him and returned his attention to the food. He flicked his wand and the vegetables flew into the pan, some of them so forcefully they bounced back out.

“Now set the table,” Draco said once Albus had finished clearing it off (of course, by piling it up messily and levitating it to another room to occupy a different surface that he would then clean up by moving the same pile to yet another surface).

“Fine,” Albus said.

“Try again.”

“Yes, Mr Malfoy.” Albus went to gather the plates, which were terribly near to where Draco was standing and it was all just very too much. “You were more fun when I was eleven.”

“And you were better behaved.”

“What happened to ice cream for dinner and mope-free zones?”

“I guess I grew up. Did you?”

Albus glared at him and took a step closer. “Okay, Dad.”

They were definitely too close now, Albus having trapped Draco against the counter. “Don’t call me that.”

Albus took another step closer. Their noses nearly touched. He tilted his head and gave Draco that look again, the one that obliterated every thought in his mind.

“Okay, _Daddy_.”

Draco’s mouth fell open. He could feel his body go hot from head to toe, and he went a bit dizzy, as if all the blood in his head had rushed straight to his cock.

Albus leaned in and whispered in Draco’s ear: “I think you like it when I misbehave.”

A sound like the shattering of glass resounded through Draco’s head. As if possessed, he took Albus by the throat and crushed their mouths together, thumb pressed against his rapidly fluttering pulse. Albus sucked Draco’s lip between his teeth and bit down until he drew blood. Draco growled in frustration, threaded his hand into Albus’ hair and gripped it in his fist, pulling back and trailing kisses down his neck while Albus made noises Draco had only heard in dreams. It was violent, and brash, and everything Draco had imagined it being.

The pan on the stove rattled excitedly to signal it was finished, and with it, the realization of what Draco had done nearly knocked him sideways. He pulled himself back, panting and catching himself on the counter, throwing a wandless spell at the pan which happily hopped off the burner. Albus was staring at him, flushed and messy and just so fucking fuckable.

Gulping air, Draco said, “We can’t—”

A knocking so loud it was as if someone were breaking in with a battering ram sounded throughout the house. Both Draco and Albus instinctively grabbed their wands. A familiar voice made ear-splittingly loud via Amplifying Charm spoke: “THIS IS THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT. WE HAVE CAUSE TO BELIEVE YOU ARE HOUSING A KNOWN FUGITIVE. IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY WE WILL BE FORCED TO ENTER.”

“That’s—” Albus began. He’d gone completely pale.

“Your father.” Draco’s brain barrelled through a series of potential causes followed by plans to get out of this.

“What do I do?”

“Disapparate.”

“I never learned how!”

Draco pointed his wand toward the east wing and said, “ _Accio_ satchel.” Then to Albus he added, “Use the Floo in Griselda’s quarters. Go somewhere safe. Don’t come back.”

The dragonhide satchel he’d gotten Albus for Christmas flew toward them. Draco caught it and pressed it to Albus’ chest.

“Can I tell you where I’m going?” Albus asked.

“No, Veritaserum. Can’t risk it.”

“Then how will you find me?”

“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out later.”

“What about the plea?”

“Useless if they arrest me too. Now _go._ ”

A splintering crack echoed through the house.

“That would be the door. I’ll hold them off. Go. Now.”

“Wait,” Albus said, and dragged Draco into another kiss, a desperate, searing thing that ended as soon as it began. He pulled away and looked into Draco’s eyes, the front of his shirt still clenched in his fist. “If something happens and we don’t see each other again, I need you to know this was the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“ALBUS POTTER,” Potter Senior demanded, “IF YOU ARE HERE, PLEASE SHOW YOURSELF.”

“Go!” Draco shouted. Finally, with one last, brief kiss, Albus turned away and ran toward Griselda’s room.

Draco gathered himself with a deep breath and exited the kitchen, into the drawing room, at the end of which Potter stood, an Auror on either side of him, one of whom Draco recognized as James.

Before Draco could sound off a retort about the sorry state of his front door, Potter threw a wordless _Expelliarmus_ at him. Draco met it with a _Stupefy,_ blue zapping into red and fading away. James and the other Auror tried it as well, but Draco parried both.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, voice no longer amplified but full of fury nonetheless, “where is my son?”

“If I’m not mistaken, about a metre to your left.”

“Albus. Where is Albus?”

“He’s not here,” Draco said, which wasn’t a lie.

“That’s not what I asked. Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” Also not a lie.

“I know he’s here!” Potter threw another spell.

Draco parried again. James and the other Auror joined in, and soon it was three against one, spells shooting off in every direction, blasting into the pillars and showering the floor in debris. He recognized he was in mortal peril, but part of him, a small part he thought he’d locked away for good, found it thrilling. He hadn’t felt this alive in years.

In a split-second pause between the three of them, Draco shouted, “ _Protego Repente!”_ The transparent wall that bubbled forth caught the next handful of attacks and rebounded them back to their casters, which blasted all three of them on their arses.

As Potter slowly got back to his feet, Draco advanced on them, wand aloft, wall shimmering as it pressed forward.

“Get out of my house, Potter, and don’t come back until you have the proper documentation to search my property. You can’t just barge in destroying it and demanding I give you something I don’t have.”

Potter stared at him, out of breath, no longer angry but achingly vulnerable, looking every bit as grief-stricken as Draco knew he would be. It had only been a few years since Draco had seen him last, but he’d aged decades in that time, dark circles under his eyes, significantly more salt in the pepper of his hair, nearly as thin as Albus had been when he first arrived.

“He’s my son, Malfoy,” Potter said. “He’s been missing for over a year. You’ve no idea what that’s like.”

“I know exactly what it’s like.” From the other side, he thought, but didn’t add that. He intended the words with cruelty but it came out with compassion, and if the consequences were just a fraction less dire, he’d tell Potter that his son was at least safe. But he couldn’t say that or anything else without incriminating himself and thereby neutralizing any leverage they may have had. “Now get out of my fucking house.”

James and the other Auror had gotten up and dusted themselves off, both young and springing back easily. Potter on the other hand, after too many years getting thrown into walls, limped toward them. James roped his arm around his father’s waist and moved to Disapparate, but Potter said, “Wait.” He looked to Draco. “If the situation were reversed, if something happened to Scorpius, you know I’d help you. I wouldn’t hesitate. You’re a good man, Malfoy. So if you know anything, anything at all, please tell us.”

Draco swallowed down the knot in his throat. If they had any idea...

“I wish I could help you, Potter,” he said with an agonizing amount of sincerity, “but I don’t know where he is.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end note.

It was no sooner that Draco repaired the door (the pillars and walls would need more attention later) and threw every protection charm he knew over the north-facing side of the Manor that he rushed into his study and scrawled out a note:

_CLAUSE 13, MANOR_

_—DLM_

He opened a window and whistled for an owl, who swooped in and took the note from him. “Send this to Adalene.”

It was a code they agreed upon should either of them get in a substantial amount of trouble and need to drop everything to come help, an inside joke of sorts because no wizarding law or statute possessed a clause 13, presumably for superstitious reasons. They had only used it once before, years ago when Ada got arrested for using Polyjuice to impersonate a Muggle political official in order to gather evidence for a case. Draco bailed her out with a not-insubstantial amount of money. He pulled a few favours and she was released without the situation passing the then-Minister’s desk, who was a far worse adversary than Granger. If it had, they would have never won a case again.

That done, there was still the matter of Scorpius. As much as Draco hated to admit it, his son needed to be involved now. To keep it from him any longer would shatter the trust between them, and Draco hated that thought more than he hated owning up to harbouring his best friend in secret for four months. Firecalling was too high a risk. Tanzania was too far to Apparate. Any owl he sent to the central post would be inspected before going international. He wished he’d had the foresight to purchase a couple of those glowing communication rectangles he saw Muggles using nowadays, one for him and one for Scorpius. For all the convenience of magic, efficient intercontinental travel was surprisingly difficult.

Then he remembered—he and Scorpius didn’t have a code like he and Ada, but they had a code _breaker_ . Surely he still had it somewhere. He opened all the drawers of his desk and pushed around papers, glanced at his nearby shelves, then finally closed his eyes and said, “ _Accio_ Cypher.” Nothing happened. He swore he’d kept it in here somewhere.

He forced himself to think backwards. The last time he could remember using it was the summer Albus had been staying with them, and Scorpius was eager to teach him how to use it. The final puzzle Draco crafted for them ended at King’s Cross before they left for second year. He’d built it in a rush while the boys were packing, fiddling with it—

In his bedroom.

He Apparated there because the thought of crossing the devastation of the drawing room exhausted him. His mother would have a fit to know he’d Apparated in his own house, but dire circumstances sometimes called for poor etiquette. He turned his bedroom upside down looking for the damn thing, wondering if Griselda had placed it somewhere it didn’t belong. He was sure if it was anywhere, it’d be in his bedside table drawer, which happened to be full of Scorpius’ childhood drawings (dragons mostly, flying about the page in their pointy greenness, spitting yellow-orange fire), report cards, photographs, but apparently no Cypher. He sat on the floor beside his bed to think, and found his mattress had something stuck underneath it. When he reached for it, his hand curled around a small cylinder. The Cypher. He knew he hadn’t put it there. Griselda would have no reason to.

“Albus,” he said aloud. The boy must have been rooting through his things again, which should have made Draco angry but instead only left him with a wave of sadness. His irritation at having his privacy breached was feigned; secretly he found it touching anyone would be interested in him enough to snoop through his space.

The Cypher was a little golden cylinder with eight rows of symbols wrapped all around. He had bought the set for Scorpius’ eighth birthday from the Weasleys’ shop, shortly after he and Astoria separated, desperate to remain in his son’s good graces and having no compunction against buying his way into them. It was the Malfoy way. He had no idea what he was getting into. The Cyphers were enchanted so that no encryption could ever be repeated, and no other Cypher but its twin could decode it. Scorpius began insisting that Draco write him encrypted notes every day. At first, as he was figuring out how to use the damn thing, the cryptograms were simple, but Scorpius devoured them, poring over them for hours at a time with a level of focus Draco hadn’t yet seen in him. Then as Draco got better at crafting the puzzles, he made the key that would unlock the encryption increasingly difficult to figure out, placing the solution in the decoding of the prior day’s note. In the notes were riddles, poems, coupons to be redeemed for one chocolate frog at any time of Scorpius’ choosing, scavenger hunts, the exact time and place to meet for a surprise afternoon broom ride, anything he could think of.

He was certain that Scorpius, being the obnoxiously sentimental boy he was, had taken his Cypher with him, which he had brought every year to Hogwarts as well. On the few occasions Draco visited him, he found the thing at his bedside like a good luck charm, far more worn than his own. Draco imagined him lying awake at night spinning the columns of symbols idly as he procrastinated his homework.

Draco Apparated back to his desk and wrote out a note that would be simple for Scorpius to decode but impossible for anyone else:

_FYI_

_Albus was here_

_Ministry found out_

_Shit hit fan_

_Missing again_

_Dont worry_

_Ill find him_

_No need to come home_

_But if you did_

_I wouldnt be opposed_

_Dont write back_

_I love you_

_ & Im sorry _

_Dad_

He pulled the book nearest him ( _Centaurian Treatises: Past & Present_), opened it to a random page, and set the Cypher. He pressed the buttons on either side, and the symbols glowed as the ones the note rearranged themselves to match the encryption. All Scorpius would have to do is set the Cypher to the page number and the message would unencrypt. When finished, Draco folded the note, stuck it in the book, cast a spell to wrap it in paper, put Scorpius’ name and address on it, and whistled for another owl.

 

⚕

 

“We’re fucked,” Draco said.

“We are not fucked,” Ada replied.

They were sitting on the floor of the study, the furniture pushed aside to allow them room, various scrolls and official documents and open books spread out all around them. And two empty bottles of wine. Ada was wearing yoga pants and a hoodie, her hair down and no makeup. Only seven fingernails were polished; Draco imagined her getting the owl and Apparating immediately without even closing the polish bottle. The thought warmed him.

Draco ticked off their list of problems on his fingers: “We don’t know where Albus is or how to find him. Or if he’s in danger, which—probably. Potter will be returning as soon as he has a permit and if he somehow finds evidence that Albus was here, I’ll get at least a year in Azkaban, a bail that will bankrupt me, or—absolute best case scenario—the Ministry will hold this incident over our heads forever and we’ll never get another case. My son will probably never speak to me again once he finds out I snogged his best friend who, by the way, is half my age. And all of that is just the tip of the iceberg to the biggest problem lurking below, which is that I am _in love with the stupid git._ ”

It felt good to say it out loud finally, but also made it much more real and therefore worse. He’d spent the last hour getting Ada caught up on everything he could think of, including Albus’ entire story, their fucked-up relationship, and Potter blasting Draco’s house to bits in a fit of grief-induced rage.

“Do you think I’m weird and disgusting?” Draco asked.

“Yes, but that’s nothing new.”

“Oh shut up.” Draco drained his wine glass. “But really, he’s my _son’s age_. I _babysat_ him. Surely that’s some kind of slight on my character.”

Ada, ever the practical thinker, asked, “Are your feelings for him genuine?”

“Yes.”

“Are you manipulating him for your own gain?”

“No. Obviously.”

“Were you attracted to him when he was a child?”

“Merlin, of course not.”

“If he denied you consent to touch him, would you do it anyway?”

“ _Absolutely_ not.”

“And if he did not love you in return, would you accept it and let him be?”

Draco had to consider that one. “Yes.”

“Then you respect his agency, value his comfort, and prioritize his happiness. Love built on a foundation of compassion cannot be marred by age.”

What did Draco do to deserve Adalene? Nothing. He’d done absolutely nothing, in fact he did everything wrong, and yet he had been granted the presence of this near-deity who made everything in his life ten times better than it ought to be. He wanted to cry. He wanted to lie in her lap and let her continue telling him he wasn’t broken.

“Even if that’s true, I’m not sure Scorpius would ever be okay with it. He’s an accepting person, but even he has his limits.”

Draco and Scorpius had always had a mutually trusting and open relationship. Scorpius knew he could come to his father for anything, and Draco would hear him out and help him to the best of his ability. His parenting method was less about authority and more about camaraderie. He rarely utilized punishments and rewards; instead, every problem they faced felt like a puzzle they could work together to solve.

Scorpius started asking about sex when he was probably too young to do so, but since he’d asked, Draco told him. When he was sixteen he sent Draco an owl immediately after he’d lost his virginity, which said, simply, _Had sex. It was neat. Will call tomorrow. Love you!_ Draco wished he could say he was surprised to find out Scorpius had actually lost his virginity to two people at once—a friend of his named Mabel and her boyfriend Vinn—but he was not. He was, however, surprised Scorpius had never had sex with Albus, which only made him feel marginally better about the whole thing.

That said, Draco had only been afraid to be open with Scorpius about two topics: his sexuality and his past, which were in fact fairly big topics to be kept in the dark about. Of the first, Draco sat Scorpius down when he was seven and explained that Astoria would be moving out of the Manor. They would stay married as friends for organizational purposes and to keep up appearances, but otherwise would pursue relationships with other people. When Scorpius asked why, Draco told him that even though he loved Astoria and valued their time together, he preferred the company of other sorts of people. Then, realizing he had no cause to beat around the bush about it, said, “I’m gay. That means I like men.”

And Scorpius, instead of crying about the major change in his life this would bring, only asked, “Will you and Mum be happier this way?”

“Yes,” Draco had said. “I think we will.”

“Then I will too.”

He had yet, however, to talk about his experience in the war. Though Scorpius knew the facts from history books and whatever else he’d picked up, he didn’t know any of the things that history wouldn’t remember: how he’d fixed the Vanishing Cabinet, what Dumbledore had said on the Astronomy Tower, that his mother had saved Harry Potter’s life, and how that deed was the only reason Draco chose to have a child, knowing his blood wasn’t poison.

Ada put her hand on top of his and squeezed. “Have faith in Scorpius. He is born of your mind and your heart. He will understand if you give him time. Now—” She took a pad of parchment and balanced it on her knee, quill in hand. “One item at a time. First, Harry Potter. Today is Sunday, which means he could not apply for the permit today. So, tomorrow morning. It takes a day to get accepted. I have a contact in that office who can stall for another day or so. That gives us until Wednesday to find Albus. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“He has a flat in London, but it got ransacked and he’s not safe there.”

“It’s somewhere to start. When you used Legilimency and saw the memory, was there anything in the flat that might have indicated where it was?”

Draco closed his eyes and pressed his palms into them until it hurt. There had been a window, and outside the window were some tall, nondescript buildings, but he wasn’t familiar enough with the city to pinpoint it.

“No,” he said. “Nothing.”

She made a note. “Next option. Tell me again what the inscription on the mirror said.”

“‘I show not your face but your heart’s desire.’”

“And what is your heart’s desire?”

“To find Albus.”

She looked at him and twisted up one corner of her mouth in a devious smile. “Do you still have the potion?”

He could feel the blood draining from his face. “No, Ada, I can’t. I’m weak. I have an obsessive personality. I took one drop and it ruined me. I came out of the vision ready to dive into a pool of the stuff and never come out. A client gave me one cigarette once ten years ago and I still dream about it. There’s no way I would survive.”

“But it will show you where he is, Draco. That’s what it is designed for. Look.” She lifted up one of the books open between them. It was a history book called _An Even MORE Thorough History of ALL Magic, GREG_. It had seemingly been written as an aggressive response to _A Very Thorough History of Dark Magick_. In this one, which had a much stronger emphasis on Harry Potter, (the life of whom took up nearly half the book, as if all of history only existed to lead up to Potter’s birth, and time just ended at Voldemort’s death), an entire chapter was devoted to the Philosopher’s Stone and the means by which Harry Potter had acquired it in his first year at Hogwarts. Ada tapped the picture of Professor Quirrell, which gave Draco an uncomfortable surge of nostalgia.

“The mirror gave Harry Potter the stone he needed,” Ada said. “If it could do that, surely its much stronger form can tell you where your boyfriend is hiding.”

The word _boyfriend_ affected Draco nearly as badly as _Daddy_ had and he didn’t know what that said about him, but he knew it wasn’t good. For the first time since Aunt Bella trained him in Occlumency, he was grateful for his ability to compartmentalize. To him, _Daddy_ and _Dad_ were similar words but had two entirely different connotations. “We have to come up with something else.”

“Think of it this way. What is the best possible spin on Albus’ crimes? The only way to convince the Wizengamot not to sentence him?”

The potential argument was hazy with speculation, and would require a truly stellar court performance to pull off. “That Erised is an advancement which benefits wizardry in some way. That it’s a prototype at current but potentially distilled has important medicinal properties. That, if prescribed and monitored closely by a Healer, it can help people.”

“And, if Albus were just a client, what research would you do to make that case?”

“I’d—” Draco took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’d take the bloody potion.”

 

⚕

 

Ada spent the night in the bedroom she had declared her own early on in their partnership. Draco figured it wasn’t wise to mix alcohol and Erised, so instead he took some Sleeping Draught and went to bed early. For hours he stared up at his ceiling and fretted about Albus. Was he all right? Was he safe? Was he scared? Was he as in love with Draco as Draco was with him? What could he possibly see in Draco? What could anyone possibly see in Draco?

Merlin, he hadn’t dated anyone in nearly a decade. He’d tried for a few months shortly after he and Astoria separated, but found sex without emotional attachment a chore, and emotional attachment without overcoming nearly a mountain of trust issues impossible. So, no dating.

Albus, though. Albus was different. He liked Draco telling him what to do, liked sitting obediently at Draco’s feet, liked getting him all worked up, but in a playful way that for some reason felt tremendously relieving. And Draco in turn liked these small trespasses, liked devising rules and games and punishments, liked the minor performance of it all that made it feel safe and intimate. And he didn’t realize any of this until it had been wrenched away from him. The thought of waking up tomorrow without Albus waiting for him at breakfast, not dressed yet but already buried in a book—idly discussing their plans for the day with the unspoken understanding they would meet again for lunch, break to get more work done, come together again for tea, take their walk, eat supper, and retire to the study to talk, or drink, or play games, or sit quietly while Draco continued to work—filled him with a dread he hadn’t felt since he was seventeen, wondering every day what kind of horrors the Dark Lord had in store for his family.

Drifting off at last, he vowed to do everything in his power to keep Albus out of Azkaban, even if it meant selling the Manor, spending every sickle to his name, and running his reputation into the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: references to underage sex (Scorpius admits to losing his virginity at 16 to two people at once). Some potentially squicky feelings from Draco making peace with the age gap. Mild hints of enmeshment.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the mindfuckery begin. Warnings in end note.

“I’m ready,” Draco said. He was lying on the chaise lounge in his study, Ada in the armchair beside it, Griselda having brought in tea and biscuits moments earlier. They’d had breakfast already and Draco managed to stall for an entire hour by talking about Centaurian grounds treatises before Ada reeled him back in. A week earlier, they’d won the Klump case by invoking the singular exception to the treatises: a tiny amendment called a Communal Petition Pis Aller, just a footnote really, which was so vaguely written it had the potential to unwind the law itself, but since no one had ever heard of it, no one had ever bothered changing it. It was mostly a way to cover the Wizengamot’s arse, which was to say, the Ministry would only ever approach the Centaurs for an amendment if the entire community petitioned it and deemed the situation worthy of reevaluation. There was even a mathematical formula for determining the number of signatures required.

Draco couldn’t believe it was real. On one hand, it had the potential of overturning any court decision. On the other, he’d have to use it sparingly. If Granger found out about it, she’d nullify it before enough signatures could be collected to keep it in effect. Or worse, she’d insist _the power belongs to the people_ or some such nonsense and make it known so anyone could use it.

Ada handed him the potion bottle. It seemed bigger than he remembered it. What was the shelf life of Erised? Maybe it would make him sick. And this time, he had to take all of it. When he had performed Legilimency on Albus, he remembered the discovery that the more potion you took, the deeper and more complex your desires, the more powerful the outcome. In this case, to bend reality as Potter had when retrieving the Philosopher’s Stone, Draco assumed he’d have to go as deep as he could.

“You know I’ve never done drugs before,” he told Ada. “Slytherins have a bad reputation so people _assume_ , but when you think about it, we’re the _least_ likely to do drugs. It requires trusting strange substances, losing control of yourself, and taking an enormous risk for little reward. Gryffindors, now those are the bad seeds. Bloody hedonists, the lot. Uppers for them. Ravenclaws, too, expansion of the mind and all that. They’ve got hallucinogens. And Hufflepuffs. Well. There’s a reason they’re called Huffle _puffs_ , you know.” He mimed smoking a joint. “But Slytherins? Give us a good bottle of wine and we’re set.”

“The longer you stall, the longer it will take to find him,” Ada said.

“Fine.” Draco unstoppered the bottle. He hesitated. “You won’t leave will you? I’d only taken a drop last time and I was out for a half hour. The whole bottle—who knows how long it’ll take.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “I won’t leave.”

“Okay.” He took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay.” There was about a shot’s worth in the bottle, what he assumed was a normal dose. He brought it to his lips, settled his mind, and downed it. It was sweeter than candy and he immediately wanted to brush his teeth.

“See?” Ada said. “You are braver than you think.”

They waited. And waited. And waited. Unlike last time, nothing changed. Draco didn’t feel any differently than he had fifteen minutes ago.

“I think it’s expired,” Draco said. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Be patient,” Ada replied.

“I’m telling you, it’s useless. It’s not going to—”

The shrill cry of an infant interrupted him.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, sitting upright.

“Hear what?”

The baby continued crying—no, screaming. He knew that kind of cry. It meant hunger, or pain, or some other immediate necessity. It was just outside the door. Some shred of paternal instinct kicked in, and he was up and moving towards the noise before he could parse out the situation. When he opened the door, he was met not with the east-wing corridor, but a completely white room.

He stepped inside. The door shut behind him, and when he spun around to open it again, it had been replaced by a narrow wall with a round window, looking out onto rolling fog he couldn’t see through. The room was octagonal, and on the other seven sides stood plain white doors, numbered one through seven in golden letters.

The baby continued screaming, but he couldn’t tell which door the sound was coming from.

“Hello?” he shouted. He pounded on the door closest to him, door four. “Is anyone in there?”

Suddenly he felt a presence in the room with him, a chill down his spine as if he were being watched. He turned around slowly.

And there was Albus. He was leaning against the windowed wall, wearing a ratty t-shirt and those damn jeans that should have been burned ages ago, bare feet as always, the locket hung round his neck. He even had his hair the way Draco liked it, down and messy, a bit of scruff on his chin. Draco enjoyed cleaned-up Albus some days, but sloppy brat Albus was the one who ignited a fire under his skin.

Albus looked completely normal, totally healthy, and exactly the person Draco wanted to see. Which, he supposed, was precisely the point of the potion.

“Welcome to your fucked-up Occlumens brain,” Albus said, “where everything you want is boxed up nicely, but nearly impossible to reach.”

“Why is there a screaming infant in my brain?”

“No idea.”

“Look, I don’t need seven doors, whatever the hell is behind them, and a baby. I’m trying to find you. Just tell me where you are.”

Albus pouted, stepped closer, and wrapped his arms around Draco’s neck. “Wish I made the rules, Daddy-O, but I’m just a guide. You’re the one whose desires are so complicated you had to build a puzzle just to get the prize.”

Draco buried his face into Albus’ neck. “I don’t want a puzzle. I just want you.”

“If you want the real me, you’ve got to get through these doors first.”

Draco pulled away and looked at him. “There are seven of them. That’ll take ages. We don’t have that much time.”

“One, you don’t know what’s behind them. Two, time is relative. You might be in here eighty years but only gone in reality for an hour.”

“That’s a horrifying thought.”

Albus smiled in a flirtatious, challenging way that made Draco want to kiss him and never come up for air. “Who’s to say you won’t spend eighty years in here with me?”

Draco stepped even closer, chest to chest, his hands on Albus’ hips. “That’s a decidedly less horrifying thought.” He kissed Albus then, slow, sweet, a brush of lips to lips—

And the baby started crying again.

“Door one’s got your name on it,” Albus murmured.

“Let it be known, I don’t want a crying baby.”

“Ah, but you do want the baby to _stop_ crying.”

Draco sighed, pulled himself away from Albus, and stepped towards door number one. He readied himself for whatever was behind it, and opened the door.

Scorpius’ bedroom stared back at him, but in its nursery stages from twenty years ago. He entered and the door shut by itself. Before Scorpius was born, Draco had enchanted the sun and planets and ceiling, but he hadn’t built the wall-to-wall bookshelves yet, and instead of a bed, there was crib, a rocking chair in the corner, a changing table.

In the crib lay a screaming baby Scorpius, swaddled in a blanket. Draco went to him, feeling every bit the apprehension of new fatherhood, twenty-five and terrified. As soon as he picked Scorpius up, the crying quieted to cooing, and Draco cradled him in his arms. Big grey eyes, little tuft of curly white-blonde hair, the tiniest hands with the tiniest fingernails and the tiniest lines on his palm.

“Been a long time since I’ve seen you,” Draco told him. “You’re quite the man these days, you know. Off to Africa, saving lives. We’re all very proud. You’re okay like this too, of course. Don’t let my crooning about your adult self hurt your confidence.”

After a not-insignificant amount of bouncing and humming, Scorpius finally fell asleep, Draco laid him back in the crib. Very fun, lovely trip down memory lane, he thought, but time for door two. As soon as he turned around, Scorpius shouted, “Dada!”

When Draco looked back, his son was much bigger, nearly two years old by the looks of it, standing in his crib and trying eagerly to climb out. His head was covered in tight, bright pin curls, and when he smiled he had three whole teeth.

“That was fast,” Draco said. Scorpius lifted his arms up and opened and closed his hands, a sign Draco couldn’t say no to then and certainly couldn’t now. He picked Scorpius up and perched him on his hip, surprised at how easily he remembered all this, movements that had felt so unnatural and awkward to him once now turned muscle memory. He almost wished he’d had another child, but Scorpius was so perfect it didn’t seem statistically possible that a second could rise to their expectations, and wouldn’t that be a cruel thing to do to a second-born. “Almost as fast as it really happened. One moment you were just a bug of a thing and the next you were five centimetres taller than me and telling me how to properly fillet an Acromantula venom sac.”

Scorpius played with the buttons of Draco’s shirt.

“I could walk right out this door, you know, go to door two, just leave you here in my head forever.”

“Dada,” Scorpius said again, delighted, and leaned in to press a baby kiss to his cheek, all slobbery and gross and so cute Draco thought he might die.

“That’s not fair. Look, I can cheat too.” Draco tickled his neck and Scorpius’ shoulders shrugged up to his ears. He let out a shriek of laughter. “Is this a test? Are you testing me? Am I supposed to do something or wait for something to happen or—oh.”

Suddenly he understood. He had to fulfill his desires. Which meant he had to acknowledge them, confront them, and enact them. He had to open all the doors he’d painstakingly locked.

“But you,” he said to Scorpius as he set him back down in the crib. “You are and always will be the best thing in my life. So why are you here?”

He stepped away again and looked at the door. As he expected, when he turned back, the crib had been replaced by the room’s current bed, and on that bed was an eight-years-old Scorpius playing with a shiny new Cypher.

“It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?” he said, always sounding a decade older than he really was.

Draco sat beside him on the bed. “Not in the slightest.”

“You look away, I grow up. If you never looked away, we’d stay like this forever. Each time, you have to let go.”

“So that’s my desire? To let go of you?”

“Not quite.” Scorpius nodded toward the door. “Look.”

Draco did, and when he came back, Scorpius was twelve and playing with a much more worn-out Cypher.

“You don’t have to let go of me,” he said, leant over a parchment with a code on it while he matched up the symbols and wrote out the decrypted letters. He liked doing it manually even though the Cypher could do it for him. “You just have to accept that the past is gone.”

“Is that what I truly desire?” Draco made the mistake of looking at his feet, and the responding voice was now much deeper.

“That’s all you’ve ever desired, I’d venture.”

Scorpius was sixteen. His hair was longish and unkempt, curls jutting out every which way, dressing like Albus in his hipster Muggle attire. The boy had always been a terrible influence on his son’s fashion sense.

“How do you mean?” Draco asked.

“It’s a two-way street, Dad. You let go of my past, I let go of yours. You’re the one who never told me what really happened, and I can’t accept your past if you don’t give me the opportunity.”

“I don’t want to give you the opportunity.”

“Why?”

Draco put his hand over the Mark, willing it away. He watched his knuckles go white, and when he glanced at Scorpius again, he wore Healer’s robes, and his hair had been cut and combed neatly to the side. This was how he looked right now, wherever he was, whatever he was doing, out there in reality.

“I don’t deserve your acceptance.” Draco wanted to look down again, but he couldn’t for fear of losing this Scorpius, the version he missed most.

Scorpius reached out and took Draco’s hand off the Mark, held it between his own. “Look, Dad, you were a child when it happened. You may not think you deserve my acceptance of what you did or didn’t do, whatever part you may have played in a war you didn’t start, but I’m giving it to you anyway. I’m your son, and I’m your friend, and I love you. Nothing you do—nothing you’ve ever done—will change that.”

Draco clenched his teeth to keep his chin from trembling, and suddenly he had trouble breathing. He had never cried in front of his son, not even when his father died, and he didn’t intend to start.

Before he could reply, the sound of a crowd filled the room, and many pairs of feet taking many steps. “What’s that?”

“Door two unlocked.”

“But I don’t want to leave you.”

“That’s what sucks about desire. You can want and want for eternity, but satisfaction is always temporary.”

The crowd and footsteps grew louder. Scorpius let go of his hand and nodded to the door. “Go on. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Promise?” Draco asked, standing.

Scorpius smiled at him, the kind of wide, easy smile Draco had never been able to master. “Promise.”

 

⚕

 

Draco stood in front of door number two. The crowd hadn’t silenced. Albus had his arms wrapped around Draco’s waist and his chin hooked over his shoulder.

“You ready?” Albus asked.

“Why can’t you and Scorpius come with me?”

“We could, but you’ve only allowed us into certain sections of your mind. That’s how you think, how you organize your identity, how you trap all the darkest parts of yourself away so you never have to look at them.” Albus pressed a kiss under Draco’s ear and added, “Most people relish in being able to indulge their desires. It seems like torture for you.”

“Because I habitually deprive myself of everything I want, yes I know, self-sabotage and all that.”

Albus laughed into his neck. “Then what are you waiting for?” He stepped away and gently nudged Draco forwards.

“Fine,” Draco said, and entered door two.

Hogwarts. The entrance to the Great Hall to be exact, pre-reconstruction. Draco was in a crowd of very short people, whose heads he could not see over, which meant he too was short. He looked at his hands. They were quite small.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. His voice was very high. He patted his head. So much gel it felt like a helmet. He ran his tongue over his teeth (crooked), touched his nose (just a button of its current self), looked down at himself (school robes). All signs pointed to the absolute worst case scenario: it was his first day of school.

But that also meant—

“Vince,” he said, and spun around. There, talking to Greg, was a chubby eleven-years-old Vincent Crabbe.

Draco ran over to him and hugged him. “I’m so glad to see you. You’ve no idea.”

Vince returned the hug, but hesitantly, and when he pulled away he asked, “You all right, mate? Hit your head on something?”

“No, just—” What would happen if he told the truth? That he was a grown man trapped in a child’s body and knew for a fact that Vince was going to die a hideous death before he could graduate. But that didn’t seem like playing into the rules this door had given him. He slapped Vince on his enormous shoulder. “Just glad to see you.”

Vince beamed. Draco wondered if he would have smiled like that more often if he had only been a bit nicer.

Behind him he heard a familiar laugh coming up the stairs. He knew what came next. He closed his eyes, readied himself to give his lines, and turned around.

“It’s true then,” he said to a very small Harry Potter, “what they’ve been saying on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts.” The whispering of surprise from the rest of the crowd, yes, yes, he thought, all very predictable. He gestured to Vince and Greg. “This is Crabbe, and this is Goyle. And I’m Malfoy.” He approached Potter. “Draco Malfoy.”

Weasley laughed and Draco glared at him, but he just couldn’t muster the same ire as the first time around, considering not ten years later Ron would become the jolly proprietor of Draco’s favourite store in Diagon Alley. Which was, of course, a secret he’d take to the grave.

“You think my name’s funny, do you?” Draco said, and was about to add the next line, the one about how some wizarding families were better than others, which turned out to be a bunch of hogwash. And the one after that involved the rejected handshake that would plant the seed of their lifelong feud.

He was too old for this shit.

“It is, isn’t it?” he told Weasley. “Draco. Dramatic, don’t you think? My dad’s a bit of a tosser, you ask me.” He felt guilty speaking ill of the dead, but he supposed at this current moment, his father was alive and still in fact an absolute tosser.

“My uncle is too,” Potter offered. And he was _smiling_. He’d never smiled at Draco before. “This is Ron Weasley. And I guess you already know me.” Potter held out his hand.

Draco stared at it, stunned, then took it in his own. “Glad to meet both of you.”

 

⚕

 

Here he was again, on the stool, about to get sorted into Slytherin and spend seven years staring at Harry Potter from the opposite side of the room. McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat on his head. The first time, it had barely touched him before spewing his house.

This time, though, it told him, “Well this is strange.”

“What is?” Draco asked.

“I think you know.” The Hat continued _hmm_ -ing, and _ahh_ -ing for what seemed like ages. “So you’re doing it all over again. What’ll it be then? What is it you desire?”

“I want my—” Future son’s best friend? Nemesis’ future son? Boyfriend? Constant pain in the arse? “—person back, which means I want to get through this as quickly as possible. I don’t have time to relive my entire life.”

“You’ll have to make time,” the Sorting Hat said. “There’s a lot here that needs settled.”

“Come on, can we just—”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Potter and Weasley grinned at him and the entire table erupted in cheer, as if they had no idea his family were a bunch of Death Eaters. It was...unsettling, to say the least. From the Slytherin table, Greg and Vincent looked confused and sad, and Draco was sad too, not because he would miss them, but rather the hideous truth of it: they were much better off without him.

Get it over with, he told himself, and hopped off the stool toward the Gryffindor table.

 

⚕

 

It wasn’t that he _wanted_ to be a Gryffindor exactly, but that secretly, and it took him a long time to figure this out, he hated being defined by his name. This desire went against everything he’d ever known about family and loyalty, that you function as a unit, not an individual, and that unit’s purpose was to survive and flourish. Everything you were, everything you intended to become, had to work toward this end. To survive, you carried on the bloodline. To flourish, you hoarded assets. The easiest way to do both of those things was to err on the side of cruelty and greed.

But as Draco had learned through (literal) warfare, tragedy, and fatherhood, both family and loyalty were much more complicated than he had given them credit for, and important in ways that he had never truly understood.

He definitely understood them now, though, which was how he ended up in front of Albus Dumbledore (who gave him a wave of nausea every time they made eye contact), Severus Snape (even more nausea), and Minerva McGonagall, flanked by Harry, Ron, and Hermione, saying, “It’s my fault, Professor. It was my idea to look for the troll.”

In fact, he’d been against the whole idea from the beginning, knowing that Hermione was upset, sure, but she’d come around, and having already lived through the entire thing, recommended—very reasonably, he thought—they should find an adult to deal with the situation. Thankfully Draco was quite skilled in magic, having many more decades of practice than either Harry or Ron, and kept the predicament from getting out of hand or showing too many of his cards. That was the most difficult part of reliving an alternate version of his past: making everyone believe he was a child, with the magical skillset, emotional disposition, and intelligence of one. It horrified him how good he was at the act.

Up to this point, he’d been trying to keep to himself as best he could, but Harry and Ron, now that they didn’t hate him, were annoyingly interested in him. They sat beside him at meals, in classes, and he was surprised to find the broom incident on the first day of flying lessons went very similarly to what had actually happened, except it was a cooperative effort to retrieve Neville’s Remembrall from a different boy with a name Draco couldn’t remember. To Draco’s chagrin, Neville still ended up spraining his wrist that day, despite his attempts to prevent it.

McGonagall had later introduced both of them to Oliver Wood, who gave them impromptu Quidditch tryouts and which Draco intentionally lost so Harry could play Seeker. He loved Quidditch, of course, and being Seeker, and especially being young enough to _be_ a Seeker, but he’d played enough of it for a lifetime, and it felt more important to him to witness the thrill on Harry’s face than get the glory of the position himself.

Then came the day they found the Mirror of Erised. Harry gazed in it longingly, seeing his dead family probably, feeling well-loved for once and all that. Draco—hesitating, but too curious not to—looked in it too, and saw...

Himself. His present-day self. He had one arm around Albus’ shoulders and another around Scorpius’, who were also their present-day selves. They looked happy. They were laughing. Draco was even smiling with his teeth for once. And Albus was looking at him lovingly, adoringly, in a way Draco hadn’t realized he’d gotten used to in reality.

It was just an older version of Albus’ same vision.

“What do you see?” Harry asked.

“You,” Draco said, thinking on his feet. “You’ve just caught the Snitch and won the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor. We have you on our shoulders.”

Harry stared at him as if he didn’t believe him, but thankfully then Dumbledore entered and they received a touching lecture about desire, which at this point, given the past four months of Draco’s real life, felt a bit like overkill. He wondered what would happen if he smashed the mirror. Since this was all happening within the mirror’s essence, would he just cease to exist? Or was the mirror just a simulacrum of the real thing and its destruction would have no consequence?

And now here they were, getting reprimanded for knocking out a troll, and despite how often he had been paraded in front of his mentors and chastised as a child, enduring it as an adult was an even more tedious endeavour, with the only bright side being: he was afraid of precisely nothing. He knew what lay ahead of them, that Voldemort was slowly gaining power, and that this brand of trouble, by comparison, was nothing.

He received a metaphorical slap on the wrist, but it was worth it for the way Harry had looked at him, and began looking at him every day thereafter: with a wide-eyed admiration that he had never before offered.

 

⚕

 

And so it went, day after day, year after year. Time flew and jumped and skipped. One moment it would be autumn and the next, early spring. One moment he was acing an exam and the next he was huddled under the Invisibility Cloak after dark with his (and it took him a long time to admit this) friends.

When he had considered this long ago—in secret of course; he’d never told a soul—he thought the trio would never want anything to do with him, that he would be a useless addition to their cause. Harry was the brawn, Hermione the brain, and Ron the heart. They didn’t need someone like Draco.

Except—they really did.

Draco manipulated his way into everything they wanted and out of everything they didn’t. He provided much-needed strategy and foresight into plans they otherwise went into with nothing, and only rarely did he offer his future knowledge (as mere speculation, of course), which, as time went on, became increasingly useless as the alternate timeline deviated from the real one. Draco gained a reputation as a boy with sharp wit, unerring kindness, and bravery paralleled only by his closest friends; he kept up with the courage of Harry, the knowledge of Hermione, and the humour of Ron. He made friends with people in every house, from every kind of family, and approached them with the level of sincerity Scorpius had taught him: be inquisitive, honest, and open, always. He ignored his father’s owls and firecalls, and occasionally responded to his mother.

But no matter how much dedication he devoted to the cause, they still managed to succeed and fail in all the same ways, so the same steps Voldemort took to rise to power in reality were the same ones he took in the alternate one. No matter how many times Draco tried to intervene, tried to steer the timeline in a new direction, certain points remained, as if they were destined to happen no matter what.

One of them, of course, was being chosen to kill Dumbledore, only this time Voldemort hated Draco instead of seeing promise in him. And so Draco got tortured. And Voldemort forced the Dark Mark upon him. And it wasn’t fun at all. But the situation still stood: if he wouldn’t kill Dumbledore, Voldemort would kill his family. And if he couldn’t kill Dumbledore, Snape would do it for him. Draco had nothing to lose, so he told Harry, Ron, and Hermione what he knew. The year began with the same level of fear and stress as the first time, but not the guilt. Over the past five years, he’d done the right thing time and again, in every situation. He knew he was no longer a coward.

It was about this time that Harry began looking at him differently. What was once admiration and mutual respect turned into bashful blushing whenever Draco would look at him too long, the feeling of some strange spark whenever their fingers brushed. While Draco was recovering from his torture wounds, Harry would stay with him in the infirmary, drowning in his own guilt and anger, saying it was his fault any of this had happened. Draco told him no, of course not, and added, “I would rather endure an eternity of torture than give that bastard a shred of what he wants.”

The way Harry looked at him then was the exact moment Draco knew he was fucked.

At Slughorn’s party, Harry got drunk and Draco had to nearly drag him back to their dorm, where, finally in bed, he booped Draco on the nose and said, “You’re really very good looking.”

“I know,” Draco said. He had intended to drop Harry off and go to bed himself, but the dorm was empty and Harry was holding his arm. They were really very much too close.

“Prat,” Harry said, and more earnestly, “Do you think I’m good looking?”

Before he could stop himself, Draco said, “You have no idea.”

Harry stared at him very seriously then, and leaned in closer. Merlin help him, Draco didn’t back away. “Then show me.”

Draco had been in this timeline for so long he had almost forgotten about his other life, his real one. But it didn’t feel like reality anymore. It felt like a dream he’d had long ago, and this was his life now, and for all the strength Draco had learned in this place, he couldn’t stop himself from kissing Harry Potter.

The wrongness of kissing his arch nemesis’ son thirty years from now didn’t begin to scratch the surface of the wrongness of kissing his best friend while knowing in thirty years he would also be kissing his son. The only thing that made him feel better about the whole thing was that if the real Harry ever had an affair with Scorpius, Draco would be baffled, certainly, but he would also (in private) pat his son on the back for a job well done. Nevertheless, it was all very complicated, and it indicated a lot of awful things about him that he finally accepted he desired Harry Potter in every conceivable way, and had done for nearly his entire life.

Harry tasted like Beetle Berry Fizzy Whisky and was in fact a much better kisser than his son on a purely technical level, but couldn’t match the raging passion and dire focus behind Albus’ every movement. Harry’s mind was always in a thousand different places, but when Albus looked at Draco, he could see nothing else.

That night Draco pulled away before anything could happen between them, but the next night, Harry followed him into the Room of Requirement, a somewhat paranoid habit Draco had developed to make sure no one had fixed the Vanishing Cabinet. He used to only check in on it weekly, but now it was daily. Sometimes twice a day if he didn’t have much to do. Or if he was nearby. Or thought about it at all.

There Harry found him and cornered him, which wasn’t difficult in a room that changed based on necessity. Nervous but no less brazen, he said, “I like you, Draco. As a friend of course, but not just. And even if you don’t feel the same, I wanted you to know.”

“I do. Feel the same, I mean,” Draco said. The backs of his thighs hit a table. He could no longer back away, but that didn’t stop Harry from continuing forwards.

“Then why do you look miserable?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How?”

“Well, you see, one day you’re going to have a son who gets into the kind of trouble that makes our past five years look like peanuts, and I’m going to fall intensely, inappropriately, obsessively in love with him.”

Finally Harry stopped advancing. “That is...not at all what I was expecting you to say.”

“I know. It’s very strange and completely off-putting.”

Then Harry continued, and was suddenly much, much too close, and Draco knew that despite his pathetic attempts at conveying the truth, everything that was about to happen was supposed to happen, and all of it was necessary to fulfill his desires and enter door three.

“I know you’re stressed, and afraid, and Voldemort has put you in a terrible position—put _us_ in a terrible position,” Harry said, “but...we’re the Chosen Ones, you know? We fit together. We maybe belong together.”

And before Draco could think of some pithy zinger of a response to ease the tension, Harry kissed him, and it was a good kiss, the exact kiss Draco had been dreaming of since he knew such activities existed and with whom he wanted to do them. They stumbled about until finding a soft yet dusty surface to help them become horizontal. Robes were discarded, belts unbuckled, flies unbuttoned, and then Harry’s fist was around both of them. Soon Draco was crying out, spilling all over himself, Harry immediately after, and they collapsed in a heap of limbs and rumpled clothing.

Draco closed his eyes and listened. Silence. He listened more intently. Still nothing.

“Do you hear anything?” he asked.

Harry lifted his head. “No, nothing. Why?”

“I just thought—” He sighed. “Nevermind.”

 

⚕

 

Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were dating. It was all anyone could talk about. Draco couldn’t pass a gathering of students without them hushing and watching him, and when they thought he was out of earshot, they continued whispering. Likely part of the reason he hadn’t been able to pass into door three yet was this: he loved it. He loved every second of it. Every rumour, every sidelong glance, every giggle he heard as he passed. He loved holding Harry’s hand down the corridors. He loved being the most popular boy in school dating the other most popular boy in school.

And most of all, he loved when Harry would pull him into dark corners and empty stairwells, press him against a wall and slide a knee between his legs, then snog him until he forgot his own name. Every day that passed was a day closer to Draco’s task, another day without any solutions, another excuse to shag like they were dying.

As the weather grew warmer, they found themselves in the Quidditch pitch, flying around until they exhausted themselves and then lying on the grass as the sun set. Draco was trailing a finger over Harry’s scar and said, “Let’s say, in an alternate timeline, I bought into all the Death Eater hubbub. And I was in Slytherin, and I was cruel to you, and we were rivals for years and years. Never friends. And then let’s say it was thirty years after that, and a lot of things had happened since, but I never managed to make amends with you. And _then_ let’s say I wanted to, even though it was probably far too late. What would I have to do to convince you I was a good man who deserved your forgiveness?”

“That depends,” Harry replied. He took off his glasses which was always a clear indicator he was preparing to ravage Draco. “Are you hooking up with my son in this scenario?”

“Let’s go with yes.”

He considered it. “The obvious answer is that you would have to _be_ a good man. You’d have to show me that you could be the man you are to me right now. The Draco I know always puts others before himself.”

Draco had a thousand more questions, but then Harry kissed him, and continued kissing him until it grew dark, and the ground went cold, and they returned to the castle hand in hand.

 

⚕

 

In the end, nothing was all that different except the steps they took to get to each fixed moment. Harry had thrown _Sectemsempra_ at Snape, but Draco, knowing what it felt like and not wanting that kind of pain to befall anyone else, jumped in front of the spell and took the damage. And later, he found himself on the Astronomy Tower, but instead of having a wand pointed at Dumbledore, he’d never raised it at all, and Aunt Bella had hers jammed at his throat. He watched again as Snape gave the Killing Curse and Dumbledore fell. Draco had failed, again, but at least this time he knew he’d done everything in his power to stop it. He ended sixth year with the Dark Mark still on his arm and scars across his chest, but also severed ties with his family and went to live at the Burrow.

In seventh year, instead of returning to Hogwarts, he went on the run with Harry, Hermione, and Ron, hopping from remote location to even remoter location. The Horcrux dragged each of them down in shifts. At the moment Ron and Hermione were on watch, Ron wearing the Horcrux, and Draco and Harry were sitting in the tent, listening to the wireless for any names they recognized. When the list ended, Harry said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Draco replied.

“Shut up,” Harry said, but he was smiling, and Draco was glad to see it no matter how brief it was. “If we, you know, survive this, in the end…” He wrung his hands and stared at Hermione’s little jar flame. “I think—well, I think I’d like us to stay together. You know, after. In a more...committed fashion.”

“Harry James Potter, are you proposing?”

“No!” Harry said. “No, of course not. I’m just—I mean, if I were, would you say yes?”

Draco took his hand. It was so much rougher and stronger than Albus’, like Harry’s special brand of love was, too. And while Draco was dedicated to both of them, the way he loved each was so different. He loved Albus in a way that left him constantly wanting. He loved Harry in a way that felt indulgent and greedy. And he knew his love for Harry was real, but that this was not the real Harry. The real Harry didn’t love him. The real Harry didn’t even like him. The real Albus, though, did. This dream would end soon, he could feel it now, but outside this place Albus was waiting for him.

“I would,” Draco said. “I will.”

 

⚕

 

It was over. It was finally over. Voldemort was dead. When Hagrid had brought Harry’s body back to the castle, Draco fell to his knees, a scream lodged in his throat that never escaped. And when Harry returned, they fought alongside each other until the very end, when Voldemort hit Draco with a curse that cut him wide open, and he fell, and told Harry to continue on without him, to finish what they’d started.

Here Draco was, bleeding on a cot in what was once the Great Hall surrounded by other wounded and dying bodies, his friends looking over him, Harry at his side. It had become difficult to breathe.

“Don’t go,” Harry said, clutching his hand and rocking back and forth. “Please, Draco. I love you, you can’t leave me.”

“Made the right decisions this time.” His throat felt like it had been filled with sand. An enormous weight sat on his chest. “It’s okay, Harry, I promise." He squeezed Harry's hand. "I’ll be seeing you on Wednesday.”

His vision grew hazy and dark, his breathing slowed to a crawl, and somewhere far away, he heard the scream of a tea kettle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really hope you're along for the ride. Things are gonna get weird. 
> 
> Content warnings: slightly more enmeshment, glossed-over potentially underage sex (how old are they in sixth year? idk but Draco hooks up with Erised!Harry), maybe squicky comparisons of father/son snogging tactics, extremely temporary death.
> 
> Also note I haven't read the books in a while so I'm using movie canon. Apologies to book purists.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end note.

Draco awoke to the whistle of a kettle and the smell of bacon, lying in a bed that was definitely not his own. He opened his eyes to find a small, sunny yellow room with white lace drapes and dented hardwood floors. He raised his hands in front of his face. Normal sized. He touched his hair. Soft, messy. He tore off the covers. A t-shirt, pants. Around the bed were discarded piles of presumably dirty clothes, jeans and even more t-shirts and a few jumpers, none of which he recognized. He patted around the bed for his wand and came up empty. He sat up to see if it had fallen off, or perhaps he put it on the nightstand, but instead found a black rectangle hooked to a white cord attached to the wall. He picked it up and pressed the button on the bottom. It glowed to life with little colourful boxes.

Then it vibrated, and beeped, and he nearly dropped it.

Another box popped up that read, _Breakfast is ready sleepyhead!_ followed by a little yellow face blowing a kiss in the shape of a heart. The name above it said Mum.

A set of dresser drawers stood against the opposite wall, a mirror propped above it. Terrified, he stood and approached it, and found—“Thank Merlin,” he said—his own face staring back at him. But he was much younger, eighteen or nineteen. In the mirror’s reflection, he caught sight of a crest on the wall that read University of Oxford. Beside it was an acoustic guitar.

He turned around and, panicked, performed a wandless cleaning charm to pick up the clothes. Nothing happened. He tried to levitate the guitar off the wall. Nothing.

“Fucking hell,” he said to himself. “I’m a Muggle.”

 

⚕

 

The house was small and rickety and full of what appeared to be ugly junk whose purpose was only to sit on dusty shelves. As Draco descended the staircase, he looked at each framed photograph on the wall. He recognized himself as a child growing up from frame to frame, recognized his mother and father, who looked distinctly and egregiously happy, but that was it. In one of them, Draco, aged eight or so, was posing in some kind of sporting uniform with one foot balanced over a black and white ball. In another, he and Lucius were holding up giant dead fish.  

“Draco!” his father called from below. “Your breakfast is getting cold!”

He hurried down the stairs to find his father plating up some fried eggs and his mother at the table behind a newspaper whose pictures didn’t move. His father had the same long hair but tied back, and was wearing a baggy Oxford t-shirt. A pair of spectacles sat crookedly on his nose. His mother’s hair was spiky and short with wisps of white peppered in, and she wore a full-length dress with a pattern Draco could only describe as offensive. The kitchen was terribly cramped. He didn’t think the refrigerator, which was wedged in the corner, could open all the way without hitting the oven. There were no house elves, no self-cleaning plates, no floating pans of food. The window was open and the sun was out, and outside he could see other tiny, rickety buildings all in a line.

An orange cat jumped on the table, and Lucius politely shooed it off.

Narcissa peeked out from behind the paper. “You’re looking handsome today. Why so dressed up?”

Draco looked down at himself. He’d put on a black dress shirt and trousers he’d found in the back of the wardrobe, and combed his hair neatly to the side the way he liked it. He took a seat at the table where a plate of food sat waiting for him. He had been pleased to find while getting dressed he had no scars on his chest or Mark on his arm.

“I think it’s nice,” Lucius said. His voice was quiet and soft, completely absent of the hard edges and spontaneous cruelty Draco was used to. “Tom will certainly appreciate it.”

“Tom?” Draco asked. His voice cracked on the word.

“Yes, Tom.” Narcissa said. “He’s getting discharged today. He’ll be staying with us a while.”

“Late one last night, eh?” Lucius asked somewhat nervously as if to change the subject. A bottle of aspirin sat beside the orange juice.   

“Yeah,” Draco said. “Wild night.”

Lucius laughed in a way Draco had never seen: gleefully, loudly, and with the utmost sincerity.

“What I wouldn’t give to be nineteen again,” he said. “Used to get smashed every night, stay up all hours, and head to class at eight a.m. Never let it hit my marks, mind you, not that you’ve got any problem with that. Our son, a lawyer! Who would have thought.”

“Right,” Draco said, picking up his fork. “Who would have thought.”

“And I was busy wooing this beautiful young lady,” he added, tilting the newspaper down and leaning toward Narcissa, “who just gets lovelier every day.”

“Oh stop,” she said, but leaned in to the proffered kiss, and then his parents were full-out snogging in front of him.

“Oi!” Draco said, and immediately covered his mouth with his hand. He’d never said _oi_ in his entire life. The real Lucius would have struck him before the syllable could leave his mouth.

“You exist as evidence of much worse behaviour,” Lucius replied without taking his eyes off his wife, a stupid grin on his face as if he’d taken Amortentia.

“Much, _much_ worse,” Narcissa said, nearly a growl, and a silent moment passed between them that made Draco unbearably grateful not to be a Legilimens.

This was it, he thought, he would die here of humiliation behind door three. His parents were eye-fucking right in front of him. He was a Muggle who apparently dressed sloppily every day, got drunk every night, went to law school, and was about to see someone named, ominously enough, Tom. Draco had no idea what he could possibly desire about any of this. He needed to get out of here.

“So when are we leaving?” he asked.  

 

⚕

 

Draco pressed a button and the window rolled down. A warm breeze blew into the car and he stuck his head out. Cars were a bit like tiny trains except you could go anywhere. Anywhere! Amazing.

“Draco!” Narcissa said, reaching into the back seat to slap his knee. “Get your head back in the vehicle.”

Draco rolled the window back up but continued gazing out of it. When he got bored of that, he leaned between the two front seats and began pressing all the little buttons on the dash. The wireless came on over the speakers, but with very loud music, and then a blast of cold air hit his face.

Lucius laughed. Narcissa swatted his hands away. “Draco, sit down and get your seatbelt on. You’re not a child.”

“Sure he is!” Lucius said. “Let the boy have fun.”

It took much longer than Apparating, but eventually they made it to a large bit of paved land and the car stopped. The building in front of them was wide and squat and modern-looking.

Inside, Draco’s suspicions were confirmed when Narcissa told a woman behind a desk, “We’re here to pick up Tom Riddle.”

Draco would have been less afraid of the contraptions of his own mind had he not died mere hours ago. The desk woman handed them all badges to hang around their necks and his parents proceeded to lead him through a labyrinth of hallways, which led to an elevator. In the elevator, Draco asked, “Sorry, you know, hangover and all that, but um. What happened, again?”

A heavy silence hung in the air.

“Tom had...a bit of an accident,” Lucius said.

“Oh, Lu, be honest.” Narcissa turned to Draco and told him, “Tom tried to hang himself. The counselor said you might react poorly to it, so it’s okay, really. I know finding someone you love in that state must have been terribly traumatic.”

“Someone I love? Finding him?” Draco asked. His heart began to race.

Narcissa looked at Lucius in a way that said, _He’s repressed more than we expected._

“Tom is a family friend. He’s been your tutor since primary school. You—you found him, just as he was—”

The elevator doors opened and Draco was left to his fear and speculation. They went down another hallway, then through a set of double doors that read BEHAVIOURAL HEALTH UNIT. Here the floors were made of rubber and a big red sign hanging from the ceiling said ELOPEMENT RISK: ALARM ACTIVATED. Around another corner, they entered a small room with a single bed behind a curtain.

“Tom,” Narcissa said, pulling back the curtain. “Ready to go home?”

Draco honestly didn’t recognize the man lying in bed. For one, he had a nose (longish, somewhat pointy), and hair (brown with just a dusting of grey, combed neatly), and his skin was a normal color (a bit on the pale side). His eyes were a normal person’s eyes, except bloodshot to the point of looking like black stones floating in pools of red. He was different, but he was still definitely Voldemort.

Tom tore his gaze away from the moving picture box attached to the wall and immediately met Draco’s. He was attached to several machines by a number of wires and tubes, and had a brace around his neck.

“Draco,” Tom said. His voice was just a rasp. He reached out with a trembling hand and grabbed Draco’s wrist. His grip was spindly and cold. “Draco, forgive me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry to have—”

The words spit out of Draco’s mouth before he could think better of it: “I should have let you die.”

“Draco!” Narcissa said.

Draco yanked his hand out of Tom’s grip and backed away. “I need some air. I’ll meet you at the car.”

“Wait,” Narcissa said at the same time Lucius hissed, “I knew we shouldn’t have brought him,” but Draco was out the door and rushing down the hall before anyone could stop him.

 

⚕

 

Draco steadied himself against a brick wall, the ground still spinning, forcing the nausea down. He gulped breaths until his heart slowed to a normal pace and he didn’t think his legs would give out on him. Tom Riddle was his beloved mentor, a family friend. Draco had saved Tom Riddle’s life. What part of his ridiculous subconscious had concocted that idea? In what way could it fulfill one of his desires?

He squeezed his eyes shut and listened for any strange noise—surely this one was over now that he’d faced Voldemort and could move on to door four—but all he heard was, “Got a light?”

He was about to say no when he opened his eyes and found—

“Albus,” he breathed.

“Do I know you?” An unlit cigarette dangled between Albus’ lips and he was wearing a leather jacket despite the heat. He looked gaunt and tired and Draco wanted to hug him and cry.

“I—”

“Oh shit, were you at the party last night? I’m sorry, man, I don’t remember anything after, like, midnight.” He extended his hand. “Mind if I have your name again?”

“Draco,” he said, taking it.

“Went a bit overboard I think. Ended up here. Hell of a night, right?”

“Right.” Draco compulsively put his hands in his pockets and found that he did indeed have a lighter. He pulled it out and offered it to Albus.

“Thanks, mate.” Albus cupped a hand around the cigarette and lit it, took a puff, and handed the lighter back. “Listen, I’m headed to grab a pint. You in?”

“It’s not even noon,” Draco said, “and you just got discharged from hospital.”

Albus exhaled a long cloud of smoke. He stared at Draco silently, appraising him, eyes flicking from his hair to his mouth and then slowly down his body, coming back up with a devious smile that made something in Draco’s stomach flip. “So?”

The other option was going back inside and facing Tom again, which Draco had no desire to do, despite all evidence pointing to the opposite. “All right. Let me just—” He pulled out his glowing rectangle from his back pocket, then put it close to his mouth and said, “Tell Mother I’m leaving.”

Nothing happened.

“Trying to send a text?” Albus asked.

“It’s new,” Draco said in lieu of an explanation.

Albus plucked it out of his hands and twiddled his thumbs over it briefly before handing it back. Draco looked at the screen. Under his mother’s breakfast message read, _Found a sexy bloke out front. Headed for a pint. Later xoxo_

“Thank you, I think,” Draco said, and pocketed the device.

Albus winked at him in a way that should have been obnoxious but just made Draco’s dick twitch. “C’mon, we’ll take the tube.”

 

⚕

 

The tube was like a train but underground and filled with people. Draco nearly toppled over when it started moving, but Albus caught him with a hand on his hip and a playful laugh in his ear. “Hold on to something.”

Draco very nearly turned around and kissed him. He couldn’t stand being nineteen and this close to non-magic, leather-clad, chain-smoking Albus Potter without wanting to blurt out, _Let’s skip all this and go to bed,_ but he had a feeling that wasn’t the intention of door three, so he gripped the handle above him and appreciated the periodic brush of Albus’ body against his own.

The sun was shining outside but inside the pub was musty and dark. More moving picture boxes were strung up all over, and Albus was staring at one of them while guzzling down something called an IPA. Periodically an event would happen on a moving picture box involving a number of tiny people and a ball, and several other patrons would shout in happiness or despair.

Draco drank his own IPA and tried to figure out the rules of this single-ball, ground-level Quidditch match. They’d only been there a few minutes when a man entered the pub. The brief glimpse of sunlight from the open door nearly blinded him. When his eyes adjusted, he noticed the man was tall, blonde, and his son.

“Look, I found your doppelganger,” Albus said to him as he approached.

Scorpius slid into the booth opposite Draco, beside Albus, inspecting him as Albus had done. He was wearing the same kind of jersey the tiny people on the moving picture box were, but otherwise looked exactly the same as in reality. “Would you look at that.”

“This is Draco,” Albus said. “He was at the party last night.”

“Hell of a night, right?” Scorpius asked.

“Right,” Draco said.

Scorpius turned his attention to Albus. “You nearly died, you know.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“It’s always true.”

“Well hurry up and graduate so I’ll have my doctor around all the time and it won’t be a problem.”

“That’s really not how it works.”

“Why not?”

They continued bickering. A barhand brought Scorpius a beer. Draco, having downed his own, ordered another in hopes to get the image of Muggle Tom Riddle out of his head, and Albus ordered them a round of shots.

When they arrived, Albus raised it and said, “To doing fuckall in summer.”

“To doing fuckall in summer,” Draco and Scorpius said. Draco tossed the shot back and was grateful for the bitter burn of it down his throat.

“Do you mind me asking how old you both are?” Draco asked.

They answered at the same time: “Nineteen.”

“Me too,” Draco said. “Oxford, pre-law.”

“Manchester, pre-med,” Scorpius said.

“My flat, a whole closet of Cup Noodles,” Albus said.

Scorpius and Draco stared at him.

“I thought we were saying where we lived and our proudest achievement.”

They split rounds of pub chips and other greasy horrible food, downed many pints, another couple rounds of shots, and whiled away several hours. Draco diverted every question thrown at him like he was in court and opted to listen rather than join in. It was brilliant, watching Albus and Scorpius volley quips back and forth, their comfortable silences while they watched the moving picture boxes, the ease with which they included Draco in their lazy summer afternoon. It didn’t take long for Draco to forget about Tom and instead focus on Albus’ shy glances when he thought Draco wasn’t looking, to stare at Scorpius and feel the comfort that radiated from him, to say all the right things that threw them into fits of laughter. Albus was his heart, and Scorpius was his home, and spending an afternoon doing (as Albus had so poetically said) fuckall was intensely soothing. He was too drunk to parse out what exactly about this scenario fulfilled his desires, but too sober to consider its implications.

At one point he excused himself to go to the loo and returned to overhear a whispered conversation between them.

“Are you sure we don’t know him from somewhere? He looks so familiar.”

“He looks like me, you git.”

“I mean besides that.”

“You said he was at the party.”

“Neither of us actually remembers the party. It feels like I’ve known him, like, a long time. And god, he’s so stupid hot. Maybe I slept with him? You’d think I’d remember a stupid-hot almost-lawyer.”

“Again, he looks like me. Do you think I’m stupid hot?”

“Nope.”

“Fuck you. And yeah, probably, considering you’ve slept with half the men in the whole bloody country.”

“Don’t slut-shame me. You know I can’t shut this down.”

Draco cleared his throat and returned to the booth. Albus and Scorpius immediately parted and looked away from one another.

“So,” Draco said, “where to next?”

 

⚕

 

Scorpius apparently had a car, so the afternoon found them in an empty field in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere, drunk and kicking around a football. Scorpius played Keeper—goalie?—between a rock and a tree. Draco was a Beater and Albus was a Chaser. Offence, defence, whatever; all the words he’d just spent all morning learning were getting jumbled up.

He found he was surprisingly good at this game, and it felt fantastic to be able to run and run and run without getting tired or a stitch in his side or thinking about how much he would hurt tomorrow. Not even the alcohol slowed him down. He was invincible. At nineteen, in reality, he’d felt anything but.

He regretted his wardrobe choices, and over time they ended up discarding pieces of their clothing until Draco was down to his trousers and Albus was down to his jeans. Scorpius had been the only one smart enough to wear breathable fabric. Over and over, Scorpius would drop the ball between them and Draco and Albus would crash into each other trying to kick it to the opposite side of the field. Draco was good, but Albus was far better, and Scorpius better than both of them. Neither was able to score a single goal in the entire duration of the game, and eventually the sunlight began to fade, sky blazing pink.

Finally tiring out, Draco was too slow to manoeuvre out of one of Albus’ traps and tripped. He hit the ground hard, but took Albus him down with him. They were both heaving, soaked in sweat, and Albus rolled over on his elbow to peer down at him. He was staring into his eyes with a look that could only be construed as hungry, his leg over top of Draco’s, face flushed from exertion. The grass tickled the back of Draco’s neck and dug into his back.

“Come back to my place tonight,” Albus said.

 

⚕

 

Back in the car, sun now settled into twilight, Scorpius rolled down the windows and turned up the wireless. Wind blew into the car and Draco climbed through the window in the roof. The music throbbed in his ribcage. He felt a tug on the leg of his trousers and looked down to see Albus peering up at him.

“You want a hit?” Albus asked.

“A what?” Draco shouted back.

Albus tugged at him again and Draco folded back into the car. Scorpius passed back a rolled cigarette that smelled very much not like tobacco.

“Scorpius Hyperion,” Draco said, aghast. For some reason, while this behaviour wasn’t surprising at all from Albus, he had always assumed Scorpius was above it all.

Scorpius exhaled the breath of smoke he’d been holding and stared at Draco through the rearview mirror. “How do you know my middle name?”

“Because I gave it to you.”

For some reason this was profoundly hilarious to both of them, and while they were laughing, Draco went ahead and took a hit, because why not. He passed it back to Albus.

They stopped in the parking lot of some kind of convenience store and finished the joint, which was making Draco’s limbs feel a bit like water. He crawled out and saw that Scorpius was putting on a large jacket even though it wasn’t that cold. Albus had his leather one on, too.

He soon found out why when, inside the store, Albus opened a freezer and pulled out a can of beer to slide into an inside pocket. From the corner of his vision, he saw Scorpius doing something similar.

“What are you doing?” Draco hissed.

Albus gave him that smile again, the kind that looked like he was ready to drop to his knees and suck him off right this moment. Instead, he backed into an aisle and picked up a small box of rubbers, brandishing them suggestively before pocketing them.

“Provisions,” he said with another wink. Draco thought he might faint.

Scorpius walked out of the store first, the clerk behind the counter eying him. Unfortunately a candy bar fell out of Albus’ pocket on their way out, and the clerk shouted, “Hey!”

“Run,” Albus said, and they booked it, sprinting to Scorpius’ car which was thankfully already running. The clerk was out of the store and chasing after them, and Draco didn’t even have the door closed before Scorpius was peeling out of the lot. The music was back to pounding and both of them were laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

Heaving, Draco shouted over the music and the wind, “Why didn’t you just pay for it?”

Albus shouted back at him, “Where’s the fun in that?”

 

⚕

 

Albus’ flat was a tiny box with a single bedroom and a closet-sized bathroom. Its entire contents consisted of a moth-eaten sofa, a reclining chair, a folding card table, and a moving picture box. It smelled like weed, dirty laundry, and Cup Noodles. Scorpius collapsed onto the recliner and began pulling out his winnings from his various pockets. Albus did the same. Draco fell onto the sofa and and closed his eyes. He expected to be exhausted, but he wasn’t. At all. In fact he could go outside and run a few more laps just to expend some of the extra energy boiling inside him.

Merlin, he hadn’t appreciated nineteen well enough.

Bags of snacks and cans of beer were opened. Albus rolled another joint. Scorpius turned on the moving picture box, shoved a shiny round thing into another box, and turned off the lights. All of this happened without discussion, as if no decisions ever had to be made, as if this was just the life they lived every single day. Albus passed the joint to Draco, who took a hit and passed it to Scorpius.

The moving picture box was much more interesting now that the tiny people kicking a ball had been replaced by an attractive bearded man beating people up with a sword. Draco was so engaged and so high, he didn’t notice that Albus had shifted closer to him, had draped his arm around the back of the sofa. Their thighs were pressed together. The butt of the joint dwindled in an ashtray.

Eventually Scorpius began to snore from his curled-up position in the chair.

Albus whispered in Draco’s ear, lips brushing it lightly, “He gets sleepy when he smokes.”

“Oh,” Draco said, but it sounded less like a word and more of a moan. Then it became a moan when Albus pressed his mouth against Draco’s neck and laid an innocent kiss against it. His hand was on Draco’s knee and slowly sliding upward.

Draco let his eyes flutter shut while Albus continued kissing and biting at his neck. Time went a bit wonky then. Seconds slipped into hours, each breath feeling like an eternity. He felt like he’d aged years by the time Albus crawled into his lap and straddled his thighs.

He tilted Draco’s chin up and asked, “This okay?”

Draco almost laughed. “Very okay.”

Hot mess Muggle Albus kissed exactly like the real one did, all teeth and tongue and impatience. Draco let himself drown in it, let his fingers card into Albus’ hair and grip it, let Albus unbutton Draco’s trousers and slide his hand inside.

Albus nibbled Draco’s earlobe as he stroked him. He whispered, “I want you to fuck me.”

They managed to stand and stumble as quietly as possible into the bedroom so as not to disturb Scorpius. Between kisses they tore each other’s clothes off and landed on a bare mattress on the floor.

Draco tried to open him up slowly, but Albus kept pushing back on his hand and urging him to hurry up. His resolve crumbled and soon he was pushing his cock in, hands gripping Albus’ hips, Albus telling him to fuck him faster, harder, _god don’t stop._

Another eternity passed. Draco went from fucking him from behind to somehow finding himself on his back while Albus rode him. Albus was jerking his own cock in time with his movements, Draco’s fingers digging into his thighs. He shouted as he came all over Draco’s stomach, body tensing and pushing Draco over the edge immediately after.

After some brief clean-up, they returned to bed and stared at one another in the dark. Draco was still incredibly high and kept having to suppress giggles that bubbled into his throat. This wasn’t real, he thought. None of this was real. It was hilarious.

“What’s so funny?” Albus asked. It was dark but Draco caught the glint of his perfect teeth as he smiled.

“Nothing,” he said, covering his mouth and trying to look serious. “It’s a secret.”

Albus reached out and ran his fingers through Draco’s hair. “I want to know.”

“You’ll think I’m mental.”

“You dress like you’re at a funeral, stick your head out of car windows, and don’t know how to use a mobile. Bit late for that.”

“You’ve got a point. Hold on—” He leaned in and kissed Albus again in case what he was about to say would freak him out. It was a slow kiss this time, so good that Draco could have gotten hard again if he’d let it continue.

“So,” Draco said, finally pulling away, “there’s this other reality. The real reality.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And in it, you and Scorpius are still best friends, still nineteen.”

“Nice.”

“But I’m Scorpius’ father.”

“Kinky, I’m listening.”

“And I’m in love with you.”

Draco thought it would be funny when he said it, but he wasn’t laughing and neither was Albus.

“Really?” Albus asked. “What about me? How do I feel about you?”

“I think you feel the same.”

“Thank god. So what’s the catch?”

“The catch is that we’re both wizards, and you’re a criminal on the run because you brewed a potion and then sold it to M—non-wizards, and found yourself in my house, and now I’m your lawyer. Oh, and your father is my lifelong arch nemesis and also the Head of Law Enforcement. Now you’re missing and I’m trying to find you.”

“Holy shit, that’s a mess.”

“And this reality—” Draco made a wide hand gesture around the room. “—exists as a test my brain built to figure out what I truly desire so that I can find and rescue you.”

“And you want to know if I know where I am?”

The question gave Draco a headache. “Mostly I want to know what my desire is in this reality so I can go to the next one.”

Albus slid closer and pressed their bodies together, knee between Draco’s legs, hand gently on his neck. “I’m not sure, but I’d be willing to try a lot of things to find out.”

“You’re just as filthy as you are in reality.”

“And I bet you’re just as turned on by it.”

“You have no idea.”

They fell into another fit of kissing, until Draco pulled away and asked, “So you believe me? About all of this?”

“You know, I was just telling Scorpius that I knew you from somewhere. But not just, like, that I’d seen you before. It was—I don’t know. It feels like we’re...connected. So yeah, I mean the magic stuff is weird, but, like, alternate realities are just the probable consequence of perception, and the criminal life? Being into an older dude? Seems like something I’d do.”

“We’re crazy about each other.”

“I believe it.”

“And there’s well, another thing.” Draco told him about Tom Riddle. For that to make sense he had to explain Voldemort. For Voldemort to make sense he had to explain the war. It ended up being a longer explanation than he intended, and he concluded with, “So I’m not sure I’m supposed to be here at all. I think my desire has something to do with Tom Riddle.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s also important that you found us, that you’re nineteen and not magical. Seems pretty obvious.”

“It does?”

“It doesn’t sound like you ever got to have the same kind of fun we do, if you had the bad side of a whole war hanging over your head. When was the last time you kicked a ball around with your mates?”

“Never.”

“See? That’s a desire.”

“Seems frivolous.”

“It’s not, though. You need to have fun. Sometimes you just have to set the pen down—”

“Quill.”

“—quill down and pretend you’re nineteen again.”

Draco smiled, and kissed him, and said, “You know, this is the best day I’ve had in a long, long time.”

 

⚕

 

Draco arrived home as the sun was rising. They had gone for an early morning breakfast after having stayed up all night talking, and fucking again, and talking some more, and fucking some more. Scorpius had a crick in his back from falling asleep on the chair but otherwise didn’t seem to have been woken by their noise. They parted at the station closest Draco’s house. Draco hugged Scorpius and kissed Albus, who then whispered in his ear, “Tell the other me he’s a lucky guy.”

Maybe, Draco thought as he trudged through the kitchen, if he went to bed, he’d wake up and be behind door four. Maybe he had to be lying down. Maybe he had to meditate on the events of the day.

As he crept towards the stairs to his room, he heard a raspy voice say, “Draco?”

He sighed. There, sitting on a wicker bench facing the watery light of dawn out the back porch window, was Tom Riddle.

Draco pushed down his trepidation and went to sit beside him. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t to be handed his old wand. Tom held it out to him and said, “This is for you.”

“My wand,” he said, taking it.

“A shiny stick of wood, really. Doesn’t have much use here. It’s more of a metaphor.” Tom looked out the window and added, “I’d like to apologise to you, Draco. For everything I put you through. In reality.”

“You’re...apologising. To me. For nearly destroying the world.”

“It’s what you desire, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here.”

“So you can apologise.”

“So you can forgive me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because it’s the only way you can forgive yourself.”

“I’m supposed to forgive the monster who—” Draco had to take a steadying breath. “No, of course I’m not going to forgive you. You don’t deserve forgiveness.”

“Do you deserve it, then?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

“I’m just a man,” Tom said. “That’s all I’ve ever been. A man who has done cruel deeds for the sake of greed and power. Do you know anyone like that?”

Draco continued to sit silently, running his thumb over the ridges of his wand.

“You see parts of me in yourself. Are we alike or are we different?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Explain it to me.”

“I never wanted—” Draco stopped and forced himself to think. “I never wanted power. I just wanted what every teenage boy wants. To be accepted. To feel like he belongs somewhere.”

“You belonged to a family who had faith in the purity of exclusion, an ideology in which you gladly participated.”

“But I never actually _believed_ that nonsense. I was brainwashed into it.”

“So you were a child betrayed by those he trusted. I was a child betrayed by those I trusted, too.”

“It’s different. You went completely mental. You _hurt_ people. What’s the worst thing I did? Bullied a boy I liked, said some mean things, failed at killing Dumbledore—”

“Fixed the Vanishing Cabinet which allowed Hogwarts to be overrun by Death Eaters, else face death. Tell me again, Draco, what’s the difference between us?”

“I’m not evil,” Draco spat. “I’m not. Look at you. Just look at you in this stupid Muggle world, completely powerless. You tried to kill yourself and I saved you. I broke through all that brainwashing. I made amends. I raised a good, kind son, who’s one day going to raise a good, kind child of his own, and when I die, no one is going to remember that the Malfoys had anything to do with you.” He took a shuddering breath. “So yes, fuck you, I do deserve forgiveness. I learned from my mistakes and made them right, and what did you do? Nothing. You had the opportunity for redemption and you didn’t take it. You _are_ just a man. A pathetic, vile man. That’s why I must have saved you: pity.”

Tom placed a gentle hand on Draco’s back. The sun crested over the horizon, and in the distance Draco heard the squeal of chairs on a hard floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: depictions of the aftermath of a suicide attempt, recreational drug use.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk, this chapter gets Weird, so please heed the warnings. I did not tag for all the kinks in this fic so I'm listing them in the end note.
> 
> Seriously yall. The warnings. Pls.

In a refreshing change of pace, Draco—thirties, by the lack of twinge in his knee—stood at the head of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom in front of two dozen terrified eleven year olds, and knew immediately what this door was all about. The board read, PATRONUS DAY, followed by a scary face drawn below it being chased away by a white shield. Front and centre of the room sat Scorpius, already taking notes. From this angle it looked like he was writing exactly what was on the board, drawing included. In the back sat Albus, staring at a point on the ceiling for some reason. Not friends yet, then. Draco knew what he had to do.

He put on his best scowl, pointed at a boy near the middle of the room and said, “You, there. Sit up straight.” The boy immediately sat up as if he’d been struck.

Draco loomed about the classroom making what he hoped was an intimidating amount of eye contact. Each student looked away, except for Scorpius, who beamed at him, and caused Draco to break the ruse by smiling back.

“Who can tell me what a Dementor is?” he asked.

Scorpius’ hand shot up, and before even being called on, he said, “Dementors are dark creatures who feed on happiness, and they used to guard Azkaban. They can also eat your soul, and—”

“Good job, Scorpius, thank you.”

From the back of the classroom, Albus was staring at Scorpius with wonder and curiosity, the same look from the first mirror memory where he'd been watching them play together.

Draco asked a few more questions. Scorpius offered a few more answers because everyone else was too afraid to raise their hands. Finally Draco asked, “Now who can tell me what a Patronus is?”

Scorpius’ hand shot up again.

“No one?” Draco asked, staring directly at Albus.

“Dad,” Scorpius said, waving his hand in a way that he had no idea was embarrassing. “I know.”

Draco turned his attention to Scorpius. “It’s ‘Professor’.”

“I know the answer, _Professor_ Dad,” Scorpius said, making a face. The other children laughed.

“Why don’t we let someone else answer?” He meandered to the back of the classroom, hovering near Albus, who refused to meet his gaze. “Surely the son of the great Harry Potter knows what a Patronus is.”

Albus slumped into his seat until he was nearly under the table and mumbled something.

“Come again?” Draco asked. He could feel Scorpius burning a hole into the back of his head.

More clearly, Albus said, “A Patronus protects against Dementors. And does a bunch of other stuff or whatever.”

“‘A bunch of other stuff or whatever,’” Draco repeated. “Eloquently put, Mr Potter. Since you seem to be such an expert, why don’t you demonstrate for us?”

Albus’ eyes were so wide it was almost comical. The other students were whispering amongst themselves—it was absurd to ask a first year student to cast a Patronus.

“What’s the problem, Potter?” Draco asked, hovering over him. “Don’t know how to do it?”

Albus pursed his lips.

“I seem to recall James casting one perfectly in _his_ first year.”

Finally Albus grew defiant. He sat up straight and said, “I can do a better one than James.”

“Then by all means.” Draco gestured to the front of the room.

Albus stood and walked to the front of the classroom, head down except to glance up at Scorpius as he passed the front row. He held his wand aloft toward the class and shouted, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

The Pegasus burst forth from his wand and flew around the room. The children all craned their necks to watch it, pointing and chattering in awe.

When it disappeared, Albus looked as pale as his Patronus. Scorpius was staring at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed, which was the same look he had adopted the first time he entered Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“Thank you, Mr Potter,” Draco said. “Excellent work. You may have a seat.”

 

⚕

 

In the Great Hall during lunch, Draco was sat beside Hagrid at the faculty table, watching the Slytherins below. Albus and Scorpius kept taking turns staring at one another while the other wasn’t looking. They did this back and forth for nearly a half hour before Draco decided to intervene.

He pulled out a piece of parchment and wrote:

_Show him one of your Dark Magic books. Tell him everything you know about Pegusi. Teach him how to use the Cypher. Just talk to him already._

_Love,_

_Dad_

Below it, Draco drew a little frog that hopped around the page. He folded the paper in the shape of a plane and flew it over to Scorpius, where it proceeded to tap insistently at his temple until he grabbed the note and opened it.

A moment later, he shot a withering look at Draco.

Draco mouthed, _Go for it,_ and gave him a thumbs-up.

Scorpius rolled his eyes, but stood to move across from Albus. He offered his hand, and Albus hesitantly took it. Draco had to keep himself from cheering. From his bag, Scorpius pulled out the Cypher and showed it to him. Albus looked at it with interest as he spun the numbers and letters around.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief, then looked to Hagrid and asked, “Do you happen to have a sledgehammer I can borrow?”

Hagrid looked down at him, a turkey leg poised in his enormous grip, gristle glistening in his beard. “What d’you need one of them for?”

“Educational purposes.”

Hagrid wholloped Draco on the back and laughed. “Guess there’s worse ways to defend yourself against Dark Magic.”

 

⚕

 

The last time Draco was in the Room of Requirement, he was fucking Harry Potter. The time before that, he was in Albus’ head, watching the mirror slowly destroy him. And the time before that, in reality, he was clutching Harry Potter on a broom and hoping not to die.  

This time, he was standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, alone, sledgehammer in hand. The mirror showed him the window in the octogonal room, still obscured by fog. He had held a shred of hope that it would show him where Albus was, but he still had three more layers of desire to get through before the game was over. After this he was going to start going to bloody fucking therapy so next time he had to delve into the recesses of his mind, it could go a bit quicker.

Briefly, he considered the consequences of what he was about to do. Perhaps breaking the mirror would kill him. Or maybe it would toss him out of Erised before he could find Albus. Then again, smashing it wouldn’t actually destroy the mirror itself, just make it difficult to look into. It was almost pointless to attempt.

But he really, really wanted to demolish the fucking thing.

From far away he heard the pained screams of someone being tortured, wordless cries of what might have been terror. His stomach dropped. It sounded like Albus.

So he took a deep breath, raised the sledgehammer, and brought it down on the mirror.

 

⚕

 

The octogonal room was empty this time, presumably because Albus was being tortured behind door five. Draco didn’t hesitate. He barrelled through and found—

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

—Albus, the present-day one, naked, blindfolded, collared, and tied to Draco’s bed at the wrists and ankles. Above him hovered a vibrator as if on a magical pendulum that periodically grazed his cock, which was so red it bordered on purple, and leaking so much that droplets of come dribbled into a pool on his stomach and slid off. He was whining and thrusting his hips towards the vibrator, which floated further away the more he struggled.

It couldn’t be this easy, Draco thought. One of his deepest desires was to, what, fuck Albus? Seemed a bit too obvious.

“Daddy,” Albus whimpered. “Daddy, please.”

Oh.

Draco swallowed heavily. Already his cock was hardening in his trousers, watching Albus writhing, begging, struggling against his restraints. He slipped his tie off his neck and tossed it aside, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and carefully rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. The Mark on his arm stared back at him, but for once he didn’t mind it. He stepped closer until he was beside the bed and slowly trailed his fingers from Albus’ ankle up to his inner thigh, settling between his legs where he felt the base of a plug settled snugly in Albus’ arse. Then he moved gently over his cock. Albus inhaled so sharply his breath caught in his throat. When Draco pulled his hand away, Albus lifted off the bed seeking his touch again.

“Daddy, I’m so close, please, _please_ —”

Still Draco said nothing. With a silent spell, he cast the vibrator aside. He dipped his fingers in the pool of come on Albus’ stomach, then used it to wet the boy’s cock, which he took in his fist and stroked slowly.

“Fuck, I’m close, I’m close,” he said, and Draco stopped.

Albus cried out in frustration. When his breath settled once more, Draco took his cock again and stroked it faster.

“I’m gonna—”

And he stopped again. Over and over, Draco brought him to the edge. Each time, he would watch the rigid tension build in Albus’ abs, and the second Albus would ask to come, let go. Draco didn’t speak a word.

After about a dozen rounds of this, Albus began to cry. His entire body shook. His cock was soaking wet and leaking a steady stream of come.

This time, Draco kept at it, until Albus said, “Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come, Daddy, please let me—”

“Come,” Draco said, and Albus immediately did, arching completely off the bed, every muscle of his body taut, shooting so far that come hit his neck. Waves of pleasure rolled over him until his cries turned soundless, and he settled back onto the bed with a ragged exhale.

Draco removed Albus’ blindfold. Glazed-over teal eyes stared up at him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

Instead of removing the restraints, Draco climbed onto the bed and straddled Albus’ chest. He unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his fly, and pulled out his cock. Albus watched him, watched as he dipped his fingers into Albus’ release and started stroking himself with it.

Albus turned an even deeper shade of red at the sight of Draco’s cock hovered above his face. His mouth was open as if he desired nothing more than to wrap his lips around it, but his bindings held him back.

A few more strokes and, with a low groan, Draco came all over Albus’ face. He tipped his cock down into Albus’ open mouth and squeezed the last few droplets onto his tongue. Albus drank them greedily.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he said, and the room shifted.

Now they were in the study. Draco was fully dressed, paperwork covering his desk, and Albus was settled between his knees, hands tied behind his back. He still wore the collar, but instead of being naked, he wore a pair of black lace panties, package tucked neatly into them.

Draco pulled his cock out once more, but now it was soft. Albus immediately took it into his mouth and started sucking, but Draco grabbed him by the hair and yanked him back.

“Stay still,” he said.

Albus nodded sheepishly and took Draco’s cock in his mouth again. This time he let it rest on his tongue without moving, and Draco used the opportunity to get some work done, a piece of parchment in one hand, his other resting on the crown of Albus’ head.

After a time, Draco could feel drool soaking into his pants, and Albus began letting out high-pitched little moans, as if just having a soft cock in his mouth and being unable to do anything about drove him mad.

Draco continued working.

An hour later, Albus began to whimper and fidget his hips. His tongue slid subtly against the underside of Draco’s cock, which stirred to attention quickly. He allowed himself to get hard, allowed Albus to groan around him, take him all the way to his throat and begin sucking in earnest.

But then Draco yanked at his hair until his cock fell out of the boy’s mouth with an obscene pop. Albus had saliva covering his chin and down his neck. From this angle, Draco could see his cock peeking out of the panties, red and wet.

“Can’t even take a simple order. Pitiful,” Draco said. “Up.”

Albus stood on shaking knees. Draco turned him around and shoved him between the shoulder blades onto the desk, pressed the side of his face right into the wood. He kicked Albus’ feet wider apart.

“Stay,” he said.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Draco gently pulled his panties down to his thighs. The plug was still in his arse. Draco liked the thought of Albus being plugged nearly all the time, waiting for him and ready whenever he was needed.

He slipped his belt from its loops and bent it in half. The first strike was across Albus’ right cheek and left a bright red mark in its wake. The second, across the backs of his thighs. Each time Albus cried out.

After a third, Draco said, “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” Albus replied between heaving breaths. “Daddy.”

“Good boy.” Then he struck him again.

Once his arse was pulsing with red welts, Draco gently took the plug out. He slicked himself with a jar he kept in his drawer until he was fully hard, and sank into him.

He fucked Albus slowly, pushing in to the hilt with each thrust. He held onto Albus’ bound wrists with one hand, gripped his hip with the other.

“Daddy, I’m gonna come like this,” Albus said. Draco pulled him upright, held him at the neck, and watched over his shoulder. Another thrust and Albus was coming untouched all over Draco’s paperwork, arsehole clenching around the cock still fucking him shallowly, a strangled cry as Draco squeezed his throat.

Draco came shortly after, and when he pulled out, a fat drop of come followed behind, leaking out of Albus’ arse and down his balls. Draco caught it with the plug and shoved it back in.

The room shifted again.

They were still in the study, but this time Draco was in an armchair reading a book. The doors were closed. Albus was once again at his feet, this time wearing a pair of tight white briefs. The automatically refilling goblet sat on the table in front of him.

It should have been alarming how easily Draco adapted to the oddities behind this door, but these were, after all, his darkest fantasies. He’d lived them all over and over in his mind already.

Which was how he knew to say, “Again.”

“But Daddy—”

“I said, _again_.”

Albus took the goblet and drank. It refilled itself once more.

“Again.”

Based on the state of his distended stomach, they’d been at this for a while.

Albus wiggled and pressed a hand to his crotch, then drank another.

“I really have to go, Daddy.”

Draco ignored him.

They sat silently while Draco read and Albus writhed. Periodically Draco would say, “Again,” and Albus would pick up the goblet.

“It hurts,” Albus said, whimpering. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.”

Draco set his book aside and tapped his thigh. Struggling, Albus stood and straddled his lap. His belly was full and his cock was soft in his cotton pants. Draco ran a hand over his stomach and stopped at his bladder. He pressed it gently.

Albus hissed through his teeth. “Daddy, no, I can’t—”

Draco rubbed small circles and Albus began panting. His thighs quivered. A wet spot blossomed across the fabric.

“I can’t hold it anymore. I can’t.”

“It’s okay, baby,” Draco whispered, “you can let go.”

Albus’ body stilled. The wet spot grew and he let out a long exhale followed by shameful moaning. Piss flooded his briefs, Draco’s shirt, his lap. He could hear the patter of droplets falling to the floor, could feel the chair get soaked underneath him.

He pulled Albus down for a kiss and muttered, “Good boy.”

The room changed again.

This time they were back in Draco’s bedroom, except he was the one on his back, naked, and Albus was riding him. It felt deliriously good, his hands on Albus’ hips, guiding his movements, thrusting up to meet him.

“Daddy?” Albus asked.

Draco grit his teeth to keep from coming already. “Mhm.”

“I want ice cream after this.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“I want some new clothes, too.”

Draco let out a low groan as Albus sank all the way down. “Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Whatever you want.”

“The souls of the innocent?”

“I’ll murder them all for you.”

Albus leaned down and kissed him, rocked against him slowly. He bit and licked up his jaw, mumbled against his skin, “You’d do anything for me.”

“Anything. Everything.”

Then, in his ear, he whispered, “I want you to breed me.”

Draco pushed upward and flipped Albus onto his back. He took the backs of Albus’ knees and pressed them to his chest, and began pounding into him. He hadn’t fucked like this since he was Albus’ age. Distantly, he recognized this wasn’t real. It didn’t deter him, in fact it made it easier for him to spew the stream of filth that barreled out of his mouth as he veered toward climax.

Albus was moaning, fingers scrabbling against the headboard, saying things like  _fuck me harder_ and  _breed me, Daddy._ It was ridiculous. It was horrible. It was the hottest thing Draco had ever heard.

He came inside Albus, harder than he’d maybe ever come before, a cracked groan trailing behind. As he pulled out he expected the room to change again, but it didn’t, so he reveled in the sight of his come pulsing out of Albus’ hole and onto the sheets.

“I’ll just,” he began. He made a vague gesture toward the mess they made. “Get something to clean you up.”

When he reached the door to the loo, a gold number six awaited him.

 

⚕

 

Door six was not the loo, but Scorpius’ bedroom again. He entered it wearing a set of pyjamas. Albus was leaning against the headboard, also wearing a set of Draco’s pyjamas, a book open in front of him.

He looked up when Draco entered. He sounded surprisingly shy as he said, “Hi.”

For some reason, this door felt more real than the others, and for a moment Draco considered that maybe he had woken up from the potion already. It was jarring, having such a flimsy grasp of what was real or wasn’t.

“Hi,” Draco said.

“Things really suck right now, don’t they? Like, on the outside.”

Draco lifted the covers and climbed under them. “They do.”

“I fucked up really bad, didn’t I?”

“Well, yes.” He peeked at what Albus was reading. It was the illustration of his teenage self again in _A Very Thorough History._ The page was earmarked.

Albus closed the book and set it aside. He scooted down on the bed until he was lying beside Draco, then pulled the covers all the way over their heads. It was their own little world under here, foreheads nearly touching, the soft lamplight seeping through the blanket and casting a soft glow over Albus’ boyish features.

“You know,” Albus said, “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

“I did get that impression, yes.”

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same.”

Draco stared into his eyes, which were bright yet frightened. “Of course I do.”

“When did you know?”

“Only recently. But—” He took a deep breath. “—nothing can happen between us, Albus. Out there I mean. You’re my son’s best friend.”

“Scorpius is cool with it.”

“He’s what?”

“I told him.”

What a cruel trick for his mind to play this late in the game. Spit him out into near-reality and offer him plausibility for a hopeless dream. “Sure, okay.”

“No, really. He’s not, like, thrilled or anything, but he’ll come around. I think he’s secretly wanted the three of us to be a family for a long time, and he’s not one to split hairs over the arrangement of things. I wanted to tell you sooner, but I thought you’d be mad I told him about us.”

Draco finally felt the pull of sleep come over him, after nearly a decade in this wasteland he called a mind. He was too tired to be honest, so he decided to play along. “I’m not mad.”

“We can be together, then? When this is all over?”

He tried not to dwell on the hope in Albus’ voice. “Of course.”

Albus buried his face in Draco’s chest and tangled their legs together. Draco held him. He could fall asleep like this, and as much as he wanted to get out of this place and find the real Albus, he didn’t think it would be so bad if he spent another ten years here, lying beside each other under the blankets and pretending nothing else existed.

“We’re safe here, right?” Albus asked.

“We should be. We’re in my brain, and I’ve only died once.”

Albus pulled back and gave him a confused look. “We’re in my brain.”

“I took the last bottle of Erised.”

“I made more. I took some too.” He paused and added, “A bunch actually.”

A chill ran down Draco’s spine. “How much is a bunch?”

Albus pursed his lips.

“Albus, tell me.”

“Five doses.”

_“What?”_

“I was scared.”

Draco took Albus by the chin and searched his eyes. “Albus, where are you? You have to tell me where you are.”

“I’m at my old flat.”

“The one that was ransacked by Muggles?”

“That’s the one.”

“Doesn’t that mean you’re in danger?”

“A lot, yeah. That's why I took the potion. That and, well, you know. Addict.”

“Give me your address. I’ll get out of here and Apparate to you.”

Albus responded, but the words were silent.

“I can’t hear you.”

He tried again. His mouth was moving but no sound came out. “Did you hear me that time?”

“No. What’s happening?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Try writing it down.”

They threw off the covers and sat up. Albus took a quill from the bedstand and opened the history book. Inside he wrote an address and handed it to Draco. “I don’t know if that’ll work.”

Draco could see the letters and numbers but they didn’t spell out anything intelligible. “Why did you encrypt it?”

“I didn’t.”

“Fuck,” Draco said, piecing it together. “It’s my fucking _head._ I can’t give myself anything I actually want. I have to obscure everything. It’s infuriating.” He tried his best to memorize it, and when he did, he closed the book and looked once more to Albus. “I have one more door and then I’ll come get you.”

“Door?”

“You’re behind a window in a room with seven doors, and I have to go through all of them to get to you. Just—” He leaned in and kissed Albus. It felt real, so real, as real as the one they had shared in the kitchen what felt like decades ago. “Hang on.”

He tried to climb out of bed, but Albus kept hold of his wrist.

Draco turned back to him.

“Whatever happens,” Albus said, “don’t let my father know you were involved. It’s not worth it.”

“Albus,” Draco replied, cupping his face in hand. “you’re worth whatever it takes.”

When he approached the door, a glowing number seven awaited him.

 

⚕

 

Behind door seven was the octogonal room again. Draco was back in his normal clothes.

And he was facing an exact replica of himself.

“What do you want?” Draco demanded. “Just tell me. Just get it over with.”

When his other self smiled smugly, he realized the profound irony in his own statement. That was when he noticed his other self was holding a chalice. Inside the chalice swirled a dark liquid.

He held it out to himself.

“What is this?” Draco asked, taking it. “An antidote?”

“I’m sorry,” the other self said.

“You’re useless.”

Then he understood: forgiveness. His forgiveness was a cup of disgusting sludge. Of course.

“Is this what you want? You want me to drink this? Some sort of pathetic metaphor for forgiving myself? Is that supposed to be my deepest desire?”

His other self took a step to the side and gestured to the round window. The fog had finally cleared.

Draco approached it. On the other side of the glass lay Albus on a dingy floor in his flat, eyes open and unseeing, skin nearly blue. He was bleeding in several places and bruised all over, worse than he looked when he’d stumbled through Draco’s fireplace what felt like a century ago. Beside his hand, a large empty potion bottle had rolled away. Alchemical equipment was strewn about, books with torn-out pages, spots of dried blood on the floor and walls.

Draco spun on himself. “So, what, I have to drink this to forgive myself so I can get out of here and save him? I’m making a deal with _myself_?”

In lieu of a response, his other self said again, “I’m sorry.”

“Fine! You’re forgiven! Was that so hard? Was that so fucking hard?” His hands were shaking. A knot formed in his throat. “Why did it take so many years? Why couldn’t you have said it sooner? Why put me through all of this—” The words stopped in his throat. His voice cracked. “It wasn’t my fault. I was a _child_.”

“I know. And I’m sorry,” his other self said. He nodded to the chalice.

It wasn’t enough just to say it, he had to prove it. And somehow, even though it was such a simple act, drinking the black liquid, it bore an enormous weight, carried with it an inconceivable dread as if it were an impossible task. As if he were at a crossroads, and this very moment would change the course of his entire life. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Draco looked at himself. He could have done a million things differently. He had more regrets than he could count. He thought every day about his failings, his legacy, the tattered reputation of his family, the part he played in the whole endeavour. Every day he grieved. Every day he sunk a little deeper into the grave he dug himself.

Now there was a boy out in the real world, suffering and afraid, making all sorts of awful mistakes just like Draco had.

But unlike Draco, Albus didn’t have to be alone.

“I forgive you,” he said, and drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings/kinks: daddykink, bondage, edging, comeplay, facials, cockwarming, belting/spanking, omorashi/pee desperation (easy to skip! That section starts with "They were still in the study..."), breeding (but not mpreg, just roleplay/dirty talk sort of?)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end note.

Draco sat up with a gasp. He was in his study, on the chaise lounge where he’d taken the potion. The windows were dark—had he been out all day? It took a handful of seconds, but once he came to full awareness, an intense pain washed over him, originating at the center of his forehead and trickling all the way down to his toes. It was like a hangover, but a hundred times worse.

And with it, a wave of nausea. He put his feet flat on the ground and bent over at the same time a rubbish bin slid over to him. The moment it came to a stop, he vomited into it.

Someone sat beside him and placed a hand on his back. Ada, from the smell of her perfume and the purple painted toenails at his peripheral vision.

“Do you know where he is?” she asked.

He shook his head, and another wave of nausea took over him.

Eventually he could only dry heave, and though the pain continued coursing his body all the way to his fingertips and toes, the nausea had at least subsided. Griselda came and dealt with the bin, cast a freshening spell on him, and offered Pain Relief Draught, which he chugged.

“What time is it?” he asked when he could finally speak again.

“About nine,” Ada said. “On Tuesday.”

He stared at her. “I’ve been out for nearly two days?”

She nodded.

“I have to—” he began, and stood, and immediately regretted it. Ada steadied him. “The book. The address is in a book. In Scorpius’ room.”

Ada opened her mouth to say something, but he Apparated before she could.

He arrived just in front of the bookshelves, his nose almost touching them, relieved he hadn’t splinched himself in his sorry state. He scanned through the titles—of course Scorpius didn’t have an actual filing system, not that Albus would have abided by it anyhow.

“Dad?”

Draco spun around. Scorpius was standing from his bed.

“Scorpius.” He blinked a few times to make sure it wasn’t a strange trick of the light. “Is this real?”

“Of course it’s real,” he said, arms lifted.

Draco hugged him and it briefly made the pain bearable. He was holding his son. His son was here, at home. For a second, Draco truly believed everything would be okay.

“There’s no way for me to know for sure,” he said, pulling away. He wondered how Albus was able to live like this for so long, constantly hopping the fence between reality and non.

Scorpius’ hair was shaggier than when he had left. He was in his pretentious casual getup that looked second-hand but was in fact meticulously chosen and incredibly expensive. Had he always been so tall?

“Guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

“How did you get here so fast?

“A really complicated series of sketchy Portkeys. Hit six continents and just arrived a few hours ago. Ada filled me in on everything.” He looked away, near the ground with a guilty expression Draco knew well. Normally his guilt was unfounded and required Draco not to punish him, but console him. “This whole thing. It’s my fault.”

“No, it isn’t. Albus—”

“Albus didn’t do anything. I mean, he did, he did a lot of stupid shit, but—look, I called you on New Years.”

“I wasn’t here on New Years.”

“Albus was.”

The room began to spin at the edges of Draco’s vision. He sat down on the bed and Scorpius sat beside him. “And you spoke to him.”

Scorpius still couldn’t meet his gaze. “For too long. I think one of the other Healers saw him, a new guy. It was stupid of me.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, upending its careful array, a habit he’d developed as a child and forcibly trained himself out of when Draco introduced him to hair gel. “It’s bad, where we are. I work with good people, but money is tight all around. Twenty thousand galleons can go a long way. I can’t blame him for sending in a tip.”

Of course he couldn’t. He was a saint.

“No, it’s my fault,” Draco said. “I should have told you sooner. You should have never been kept out of the loop on this.”

“I get why you did, though. You were protecting both of us best you could.”

Draco knew they had to find Albus, and soon, but all he wanted was a moment—a real moment—with his son. Just two days ago he would have been able to deny himself, but after everything he’d gone through in Erised, he could no longer bring himself to set his needs aside.

“I’ve missed you,” Scorpius said, leaning his head on Draco’s shoulder.

Draco put an arm around him. “I’ve missed you too.”

He allowed himself a long, silent, peaceful moment. The pain was still there, but it had turned into a sharp point in his forehead and a dull throb through the rest of him.

“How was Erised?” Scorpius eventually asked.

“Bizarre.”

“What was it you truly desired?”

There was no reason to lie. “Forgiveness.”

“Oh.” Scorpius lifted his head and looked at him. “Does that mean…”

“We can talk about—” Draco made a vague hand gesture that he hoped conveyed _my past._ “When this is all over.”

Scorpius’ face lit up. “I have so many questions.”

“It was a _war,_ Scorpius. People _died._ Don’t look so happy.”

He forced his face into a false sternness. “Right. Tragedy.”

Which reminded him…

“ _Accio_ history book,” Draco said.

That was a mistake. Dozens of books flew at them and they had to cover their heads from being pummeled. When the barrage ended, they were surrounded by a sea of disheveled history texts.

Scorpius stared at him. “Really?”

“Oh, it’s _my_ fault you have a hoarding problem.” He lifted his wand and tried again: “ _Accio A Very Thorough History—”_

The bedside table began to rattle excitedly. Draco opened the drawer and the book flew into his hands. He opened it, and there it was: the encrypted message Albus had written.

“It was real,” Draco said. “It really happened.”

Which also meant Scorpius knew about his and Albus’...thing that had maybe or maybe not been going on between them the past few months. And it also meant Albus had actually confessed his love. And it _also_ meant that Draco agreed to being in a relationship after this was all over.

But most importantly, it meant that Albus was actually, literally dying.

“Is that a cryptogram?” Scorpius asked.

“I think so.”

Scorpius pulled the Cypher out of his pocket. The symbols were almost completely worn on it, and the thought of him playing with it a continent away, his only piece of home, made Draco hurt in a whole new way.

“What’s the code?” Scorpius asked.

“I think—” He opened the book and thumbed to the earmarked page with his illustration on it. He unfolded the corner and exposed the page number, which Scorpius immediately spun into the Cypher.

“It can’t be that easy, can it?” he asked as Draco turned back to the front.

“I guess my impulse to obscure the truth couldn’t match my desire to find Albus.”

Scorpius pushed the buttons on the Cypher. The message glowed golden and rearranged itself into a discernible address.

Draco tossed the book aside and prepared to Apparate.

Scorpius grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Saving Albus.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Dad. I’m a Healer and he’s my best friend. I’m not letting you go alone.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“I’m not a child anymore.”

Draco felt like he’d been stabbed, like the first room of Erised all over again. Just hours ago he’d held baby Scorpius in his arms, and he’d never get that feeling back. There was always the potion, though. Albus could maybe make more, and give some to Draco, and Draco could go return—

Merlin, he thought, was this the impulse Albus fought all the time?

“If you don’t let me Sidealong, I’ll just Apparate there myself.”

“Fine.” Draco grabbed Scorpius by the hand and Apparated.

 

⚕

 

They landed outside a shabby-looking building in a worse-looking area of town. Scorpius ran to the door and tried to open it, but was locked. “ _Alohamora,_ ” he muttered wandlessly, and the door unlocked. Draco was impressed—it had taken him to his twenties to master even a handful of wandless spells. The address had read flat 3A, which meant they had to run up three flights of steps. When the reached the door, it had been broken open, the frame splintered.

They found Albus in the exact state Draco had seen him in through the window: battered and bloody, eyes nearly white with the fog of Erised. Scorpius immediately set to work. He leaned down and put his ear to Albus’ mouth.

“He’s breathing, but it’s shallow.” He pressed his fingers to Albus’ pulse and cast a timekeeping spell in the air.

Draco watched as the seconds ticked by.

“Slower than it should be. Much slower.”

He hovered his wand over Albus’ body. The tip glowed with a faint blue light. Draco couldn’t tell what Scorpius saw or felt or however it worked, so while he waited, he took Albus’ hand. It was nearly frozen to the touch.

“We need to take him to hospital,” Scorpius said.

“The Ministry will be on him immediately.”

Scorpius gave Draco a stern look. “Dad, I love him too, but there will be nothing left to love if he’s dead.”

“We can’t let him go to prison.”

“At least in prison he’d be alive.”

“We don’t know for sure that Erised can actually kill you. Let’s try to wake him up.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did you wake up?”

“I completed a puzzle.”

“You gave yourself a—” Before Draco could respond, Scorpius held up a hand. “You’re Draco Malfoy. Of course you gave yourself a puzzle.”

Draco refused to think too deeply into that remark.

“I can use Legilimency,” Draco offered. “I can go in, find him, and convince him to climb out. Maybe he has a puzzle to solve too.”

“His brain doesn’t work like that. He’s a mess of chaos and compulsion. He spends every minute of every day battling impulses he can barely control.”

“Then I’ll do what I can.”

“No, I’ll go.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m his best friend.”

“I’m his—” Draco stopped.

Scorpius raised his eyebrows. “His what, Dad?”

“I’m an Occlumens. I’m better suited for this than you.”

“Fine, but if he gets worse, I’m Apparating him to St Mungo’s.”

“Deal.”

Draco pressed the tip of his wand to Albus’ temple and said, “ _Legilimens._ ”

Unlike the first time, it was a struggle making it into Albus’ head, as if he were fighting against the wind in a blizzard. When he landed, he was once more in the Room of Requirement. It didn’t feel like a memory, the familiar push-pull of the Legilimency-Occlumency divide, but exactly as he had in his own Erised, like against all logic it was real, when he knew for a fact it wasn’t.

He was standing in front of the Mirror of Erised again. It was made whole, his sledgehammering in his own Erised having not made a dent in this one. Albus was sitting in front of it, as dazed as he looked right before it had been destroyed in reality, as out of it as he looked in reality right this moment.

Draco gazed into the mirror, horrified by what he saw.

Albus was watching himself in the mirror. The Albus in the mirror was watching himself in the mirror. And that Albus was watching himself in the mirror, a chain of images stretching into infinity, like placing two mirrors in front of each other.

“This is your deepest desire,” Draco said. “To have the mirror back.” He dropped to his knees behind him and reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, surprised to find he could touch Albus like he had in his own Erised. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.”

He covered Albus’ eyes with his hands, squeezing his own shut, steadying himself for what he knew was about to happen.

There was no screaming this time, no thrashing, just stunned silence followed by quiet sobbing.

“Help me,” he said. “Please...please help me.”

Draco wrapped his arms around him. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

“You aren’t. You’re just—”

“It’s me, Albus. I promise it’s me.” He pressed his lips to the crown of Albus’ head. “I need you to wake up. I need you to come back to me.”

“I’m—I’m fading. I can feel it. I’m going to be trapped here forever.”

“We’re going to get you out of here.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Concentrate. Try and take us somewhere else. Take us away from the mirror.”

Draco closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was in Albus’ flat. Daylight streamed through the broken blinds. Other than Albus crying in his arms, it looked exactly as it did when he performed Legilimency just moments ago. In fact he had no proof it wasn’t real, that time had slowed rather than hastened like in his own Erised, and perhaps Scorpius had gone to get help.

Draco pulled away from Albus and looked at him. His eyes were dazed and unfocused. His jaw was loose.

“Why are we here?” Draco asked. “This is where you are. This is where _we_ are. Is this real or are we still in Erised?”

Albus blinked slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Either reality, or an exact replica of it. Of course. Your deepest desire is to wake up.”

A loud knocking resounded through the flat.

“Oi!” a deep voice shouted through the door, which Draco had repaired on entering. “We made a deal.”

“What deal?” Draco asked Albus.

“They said they’d kill me if I didn’t make them more.”

“So you did.”

Albus shook his head. “Refused.”

“So they beat you up and—”

“Gave in.”

“Then you made more and took it instead of giving it to them. Why?”

“Needed it. Needed all of it. Needed to see you again.”

“You want them to return though? Is that why they’re here?”

“Deserve it. Want it.”

“You want them to kill you.”

A cracking sounded which signaled the lock had been broken, the frame once more splintered. Draco stood and drew his wand. It wasn’t just one man who entered but two. They looked like Snatchers except larger, more tattooed, and uglier.

“ _Protego Maxima!_ ” Draco shouted.

The men walked through the shield.

“Albus!” Draco said. “Our magic doesn’t work here?”

“Didn’t mean to,” Albus said.

Two men approached him and he spit out a compulsive _Stupefy._ It didn’t work. His wand was useless.

Pain blossomed through his body as he was thrown against a wall by the smaller of the two apes, who pinned him to it. He dropped his wand and watched it roll away. The larger circled around to Albus, who was lying on his side curled into a ball, arms covering his head.

“Where is it?” the leader said, kicking about the few items in the room, knocking potion supplies against walls, breaking a beaker, toppling a stack of books.

“Don’t have it,” Albus said. “Took all of it.”

“This isn’t real!” Draco yelled, which earned him an elbow to the nose. He felt it break; the taste of copper flooded his mouth. Through the pain, which was very real, he added, “Desire for me protect you, Albus. Focus on that.”

Then he got a punch to the gut which made him double over and nearly vomit. When he managed to straighten again, Albus was being kicked by the leader.

“I got clients, mate. They demand, you supply.”

“No,” Albus said.

“Guess I’ll have to make good on our deal, yeah?” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife, which he flipped open with a flick of his wrist.

Albus stared at him, the first time his eyes had focused since they arrived here. “Please.”

The guy looked to the man pinning Draco and told him, “Kid’s got a death wish.”

“Albus, concentrate,” Draco pleaded.

“You’re not real,” Albus said, and the man kicked him in the stomach, causing him to curl into a ball again, his arms covering his stomach. The man bent down and hoisted Albus clumsily up by his shirt. From this angle Draco noticed a tattoo in a familiar shape on the man’s bicep. A remnant of a Muggle war from decades ago. A symbol of the wrong side. He knew what it was. He knew what it meant: the Muggle equivalent of Death Eaters.

“I am!” Draco said. “Please, Albus—”

The other man backhanded him. Draco swallowed the pain and gritted his teeth. He performed a silent spell to summon his wand back into his hand, as fruitless as the effort was. He had to do something.

To his shock, it flew to him. The moment it was in his grip, he pointed it as his captor and hissed, “ _Crucio_.”

The man fell to the floor and began screaming and writhing.

Draco pointed his wand at the knife-wielding man, who turned toward him, legs apart, ready, apparently, to fight.

“ _Imperio_ ,” Draco said softly, and forced the man to bury the knife in his stomach.

Mouth open in shock, he fell to his knees, blood flowing out of his wound and seeping into his jeans.

Draco approached him, pressed the tip of his wand to the man’s throat. He sputtered some kind of plea. This all still felt so real: the pain in his nose and stomach, every tiny detail of Albus' flat, the fear in the man's eyes. And, Draco considered, there was a chance it actually was. Yet he felt no remorse as he said, “ _Avada Kedavra._ ”

A spark of green shot from his wand and the light behind the man’s eyes faded. From his place on the floor, Albus groaned. Draco knelt by him once more. His arms were covering his stomach, and when Draco lifted one, his shirt was covered in blood.

“How did—”

“If I don’t get out now,” Albus said, “I’ll be here forever.”

Draco threaded his fingers through Albus’ hair, squeezed his eyes shut, and pressed their foreheads together. “I’m sorry, Albus. I have to turn you in.”

Albus let out a groan that sounded like a whimper.

“You’ll be okay,” Draco said. “Wherever you end up, I’ll get you out. I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise.”

He forcefully let go out of the Legilimency and came back to reality with only slightly less agony than the first time, like an echo of the original ordeal. It was still nighttime; only a few minutes had passed, he guessed. Albus had gone paler somehow. Draco touched his nose and found it was no longer broken.

Scorpius was unclasping the locket around Albus’ neck and shoved it in his pocket. He replaced it with an identical one.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked.

“I transfigured my shoelace.”

Draco looked down and confirmed that one of Scorpius’ shoelaces was in fact missing.

“When this is all over, the Ministry is going to destroy the locket, so I’m taking it before they get a chance. Albus told me once that it was safe as long as it was in the right hands, and those hands have never been his, and they’re definitely not the Ministry’s.” He finished tucking the locket under Albus’ shirt and looked to Draco. “I have the opportunity to develop something great from this.”

“Scorpius—”

“We don’t have time to discuss it, Dad. You took one dose and worked through all the shame and hatred and fear you’ve kept bottled up for decades. If we can figure out a safe means of distillation and distribution, this could really help people.”

“It’s killing him.”

“You’re right. The Legilimency didn’t work. I’m taking him to hospital.”

“I should do it.”

“It has to be me. If the Ministry finds out you had anything to do with this, you won’t be able to represent us. They’ll give you Veritaserum. They’ll put you on trial. They’ll call Ada a conflict of interest and won’t let her touch the case.”

“I can’t just let you pretend you had a stronger hand in this than you did. It’s not right.”

“What’s right doesn’t matter. You go home and build a defence. I take him to St Mungo’s and turn myself in.”

“Fine. But you can’t say a word, all right? Don’t answer a single question, and if they force you to speak, tell them you’ll wait for your lawyer.”

“I can do that.” He pulled Albus to sitting and wrapped an arm around him. He had the gall to grin at Draco, as if he found this all very exciting and didn’t believe for a second it could end badly. “See you when you break me out of jail. Love you.”

He Disapparated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for depictions of (magical) overdose, graphic violence (imagined), and Nazis (also imagined).
> 
> Obvs the Nazi dies.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline gets a bit confusing but hopefully the timestamps help.

**Wednesday**

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he went away a while. They don’t have the Dementors anymore, you know.”

Albus’ father and Aunt Hermione both hissed, “Ron!”

“What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Least he’d stay out of trouble for a bit.”

“He’s not going to Azkaban,” Harry said.

Albus watched the shadows behind the curtain talk about him in hushed whispers. Every part of his body thrummed with pain, but it felt far away, like it wasn’t attached to him, or at least that he shouldn’t care about it. They must have given him something. He was lying in a bed at St Mungo’s (he could tell by the atrocious wallpaper covered in hibiscus flowers and colorful tropical birds). There was no window—he couldn’t tell what time of day it was, or what day it was at all, or what happened to get him here. Part of him wondered if he was still in Erised, if what he desired most was to be caught and subsequently cast away by his family.

“What’s the other option?” Uncle Ron asked. “They took Hermione off the council for the hearing. It’s out of our hands. A bunch of old fuddy-duddies are deciding his fate.”

“There has to be a better solution,” Aunt Hermione said. “Rehabilitation or community service maybe. We could offer to take turns watching him.”

“You expect us to be his babysitters? I hate to break it to you, love, but the reason this all happened is because we did a bit of a shit job of that in the first place.”

“You’re not helping, Ron,” Harry said.

“I’m just saying, he’s a grown man. There’s got to be consequences for his actions.”

“I agree,” Albus’ mother said. She’d been so quiet Albus didn’t even know she was there. “We can’t keep putting ourselves through this. He broke the Statute in a major way. There’s no denying it, no defending it. I say we accept whatever the Wizengamot decides. We can’t use our authority to give him preferential treatment.”

“How can you say that? He’s our son.”

“Ron is right, Harry,” Ginny said. “He’s gone too far. It’s out of our hands.”

Albus compulsively reached for his locket. It was missing. He reached for his wand. Also missing. He was in a worse state than he was when he’d arrived at the Manor.

Uncle Ron was in the middle of saying something else when Aunt Hermione shushed him and said, “Shut up. I heard something.”

She dragged the curtain aside, and right there were his mother, father, aunt, and uncle staring at him with concerned expressions, aged what looked like decades from when he last saw them. This was definitely real, he thought, not Erised. He could never imagine them looking like this, like none of them had slept in weeks. They’d all lost weight except for Uncle Ron who gained some. Shadows ringed their eyes, and Aunt Hermione’s were red-rimmed as if she’d been crying. His mother looked stoic and composed, the most frightening facade of all of them. She only looked like that at times when she had been pushed to her absolute limit. His father was—well, the same, but vindicated, angry, scared.  

This was the effect of Albus’ absence. This was what he had done to them.

He couldn’t help the dam that broke then—in his head, his heart. No matter what happened now, it was over. It was finally over.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his breath caught, his voice cracked. “I’m so, so sorry.”

 

⚕

 

Everything moved very quickly after that. All emotions were set aside to tend to Albus. Harry doled out responsibilities amongst the family, and over the coming hours, everyone came to visit him: Lily, Teddy, his cousins, his grandparents, Uncle George. He could tell they’d been primed beforehand, could see the curiosity on their faces, the worry mixed with anger and disappointment and above all, relief. They all wanted to ask him where he’d been, what he’d done, why he’d done it. Instead they made small talk, updated him on their lives, tried to make him laugh to no avail.

His brother refused to see him, but Albus knew he was on guard at the door, and when Harry tried to relieve him for the day to put another Auror in his place, he overheard James refuse to give up his post.

Uncle Ron got him to eat by bringing his favourites: sweet rolls, chocolate, and somehow he managed to find Chicago-style deep-dish pizza, to everyone’s confusion and Albus’ reluctant delight. He ate the whole thing. Lily happily ate his wilted hospital salad and sad-looking pudding.

As night fell, everyone went home for the evening except James who remained at the door and Harry who stayed sat on a chair beside his bed.

“No matter what happens,” his father said, “the most important thing is that you’re safe.”

“I don’t feel safe. I feel like I’m going to end up in prison.”

The resulting silence confirmed his father held the same fears.

“Who brought me here?” Albus asked, not wanting to know the answer. If it was Draco, everything was fucked.

“Scorpius.”

Albus’ mind ground to a halt. “What?”

“Scorpius brought you in and worked with the Healers to stabilize you. You were dying.”

“And now where is he?”

“We took him to the Ministry for questioning and he’s being held there.”

“You _arrested_ him?”

“We had to, Al.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Listen, there are a dozen members of the Wizengamot who have been looking forward to locking you up for a long time. You don’t know what it’s like to be scrutinized to the degree you’re about to be. The entire wizarding community has had a year to blow this whole situation so far out of proportion—Rita Skeeter hasn’t just written a book about you, she’s started an entire _series._ They’re calling you the most powerful wizard since…”

When he trailed off, Albus concluded: “You.”

“You have to understand, in their minds, it makes a good story. Harry Potter’s son turned dark. They want a new chapter for the history books. That’s all anyone really cares about. You don’t know—”

“What it’s like to be a big important famous wizard, I _know_.”

“I’m trying to protect you, Albus.”

“You’re doing a shit job of it.”

Albus was expecting anger, but his father only sighed and looked down at his hands.

“You have to understand the position you’ve put me in. As much as I’d like to, I can’t sweep this under the rug for you.”

“Then what’s the point of being Head of Law Enforcement? What’s the point of being Harry bloody Potter, renowned rule-breaker for the sake of righteous goodness?”

“All I’ve ever done is prepare you for what’s out there. What I know is out there. It can’t have been easy being my son, but you have to believe me when I say I’ve done everything I could to keep you out of the public eye. I never wanted you to know how cruel people become when they’ve put you on a pedestal, for better or for worse.”

“Maybe if you could have set down your hero mantle after the war instead of taking up one of the most prominent fucking positions at the Ministry, you wouldn’t have had to work so hard to keep me off a pedestal. Uncle Ron owns a joke shop, Dad. Mum is a sports reporter. Could it have killed you to become a teacher? To have given your birthright sanctimonious bullshit to someone else to deal with? We’re all sorry you were born to save us or whatever, but you had the opportunity to let go of it and you didn’t.”

Harry didn’t bother defending himself. He slumped against the back of the chair and covered his face with his hand, as if he were too exhausted to have his feelings hurt. “I want to be on your side. I don’t want you to go to prison, and to do that, I need to know what happened. Can you at least give me that?”

Albus crossed his arms over his chest even though it made him feel like a child. “I’m not saying anything until my lawyer is here.”

“What lawyer? Who’s your lawyer?”

Albus looked his father in the eye and said, “Draco Malfoy.”

 

⚕

 

**Saturday**

Albus was finally well enough to get discharged. During his stay at St Mungo’s, he mostly slept, gained back his appetite, and fought through his pangs of withdrawal which he had become sadly accustomed to. With the aid of Healers it was relatively gentle compared to last time. The low point only lasted about a half-day, and he didn’t threaten anyone or scream or cry. Draco hadn’t shown up yet, but Albus didn’t lose faith.

The morning of his release, his mother brought him a new change of clothes, and James cast a binding charm around his wrists.

“Is this really necessary?” Albus asked.

James didn’t answer. He looked as handsome and put-together as always, and for the first time in Albus’ life, he missed the goofy brute who never stopped teasing him, who always kept an eye out for him even when he’d never offered any affection in kind.

Before James could Sidealong him, Albus said, “Say _something,_ James.”

He finally looked at Albus. Faces close, in a hissed whisper, he said,  “Look, you have no idea what you’ve done to our family. You have no idea what our parents have been through. You have no idea how much sacrifice has been made to give us the lives we have. You don’t care about any of it. Everyone else is going to pity you, call you sick, get help for you. You’re going to leave this mess with a slap on the wrist. But I’m the only one who sees you for who you are. You’re selfish, Albus. You’ve always been selfish. If it were up to me, you’d be locked away for good so none of us ever have to think of you again.”

Albus almost wanted to say he wished for the same, but his words got stopped in his throat. James had never spoken to him like that. While everyone else seemed to age, James was the only one who looked like a completely different person. All the features were the same, of course, but the easygoing whimsy in his eyes had vanished. He was stern, serious, and terrifying.

He grabbed Albus roughly by the arm and Apparated.

 

⚕

 

Albus was put in a small black room with a table and a few chairs. He was no longer bound at the wrists but he could tell by the shimmering around the door that he was locked inside. No one had offered him his wand, so he assumed he no longer had it. No one mentioned the locket, and he was too afraid to ask about it. He wanted to cry, but he was too empty. So all he could do was sit, and wait, and plead in his mind for Draco to come save him and Scorpius.

After a few hours, the door opened to a well-dressed, well-composed Draco Malfoy, followed by Albus’ father, James, and two other Aurors. Albus stood and said, “Dr—” but before he could finish, Draco held out a hand and said, “Mr Potter, per your request, I’ve been appointed as your defence.”

Albus took his hand, confused but going along with it. Draco was carrying the dragonhide satchel he’d bought Albus for Christmas, which relieved him in some strange way.

“Please, have a seat,” Draco said.

Albus sat back down, Draco sat across from him, and Harry sat adjacent to them.

“All due respect, Harry,” Draco said, eyes flicking to the guard detail, “I’d like to speak to my client privately.”

“I’m his father.”

“I understand, but that doesn’t negate due process.”

“But we agreed—”

“I know what we agreed, but I’m afraid I have to insist,” Draco said. A silent, tense moment passed between them.

Eventually Harry stood and nodded toward the wall at the far side of the room. “I’ll be behind there. I can see through it from the other side.”

As soon as they left, Draco cast _Muffliato_.

“Draco—” Albus moved to hold Draco’s hand, but Draco pulled away.

“We need to get through this, Albus. I have a plan. Ada and I built a solid case and I need you to—”

“I’m sorry, Draco, really. When I got to my flat, and the guys jumped me, and I just couldn’t—I couldn’t help it. I was so scared. I didn’t know when you’d come find me. I didn’t know what to do. You have to believe me.”

Draco pulled a scroll out of the satchel. “It’s fine, really.”

“Look at me!”

“You nearly died, Albus. You—” He closed his eyes and took a deep, shaking breath. “You nearly _died._ I almost lost you.”

“But I didn’t die. You and Scorpius saved me.”

“And Scorpius got arrested.”

“But you’re going to get us out of this.”

“I’m going to _try,_ but the odds are stacked against us. They took your aunt off the chair. The press has gone wild. Rita Skeeter came to the Manor yesterday and asked about the torrid love affair between you and my son.”

“Wow, she’s way off the mark.”

“On that note, your father came to the Manor a few days ago and we had a long chat.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. Well, three quarters of the truth.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He’s not on the council. He has no say whatsoever in the proceedings. And most importantly, we made an Unbreakable Vow.”

“What the fuck? If it was that easy, why didn’t we bring him in sooner?”

“Because if you remember, you told me he wanted you in Azkaban. I can’t give you adequate legal advice if you don’t tell me the sodding truth.”

“I assumed he did! If he’s on our side, why’d you chuck him out of the room?”

“Legally speaking, it’s one thing to have a casual conversation with someone off the record. It’s another to be at the Ministry where you never know who’s listening to what. We have to pick our battles carefully. Your father has no reason to be one of them when we have a sea of Statute-upholding traditionalists up our arses. Moreover, I need your father to trust me, because while he doesn’t have a say in your sentence, he does have one in whether any of us get a dose of Veritaserum, and I don’t know about you but given everything that’s happened, I’d rather avoid that.”

Albus gave him a long look followed by a dark smile. “Why? Are you ashamed of me, Daddy?”

“I swear to Merlin, if you don’t behave…”

“You’ll what?”

Draco leaned forward. “I will bend you over my knee.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Just wait until we get home—”

A loud knocking interrupted them. “Five more minutes,” a voice called. It was muffled from the spell, but sounded like James.

Draco sat up straight again and regained his composure. “We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”

Albus made a frustrated noise and let his head fall onto the table.

“Albus, listen to me. Here’s what’s going to happen. When we go to trial, we’re going to plead guilty on all charges.”

He looked up again. “No!”

“There’s too much evidence against you. You were caught selling a magical potion to a Muggle. All we can do is minimize how much you sold and to whom you sold it.”

“So what do I tell them?”

“Three quarters of the truth. You found the Mirror of Erised when you were eleven years old. You grew addicted to it. When it was destroyed, Scorpius made you a locket for sentimental reasons. So far none of this is illegal, so there’s no reason to lie about it. You ran away from Hogwarts—a shit thing to do, but not illegal since you were seventeen, but you might want to flourish the details here. Say you had a stronger desire for discovery than for staying at school, explain that your addiction continued to overwhelm you and caused you not to think straight. Then say you used the locket to alchemize the Elixir of Erised and got addicted to that as well. You ran out of money, faced starvation, and rather than go home and face your family, you sold a little potion under the guise of a Muggle drug. Do you hear me? That’s very important. The Muggles you sold to had no idea the potion possessed magical properties. To them it was like any other hallucinatory substance.

“These trials, the massive ones, they’re not for justice. They’re for entertainment. I know it’s sick, but it’s true. When you get to this part, I need you to weave a compelling narrative about struggle and survival. They need to understand why you made every decision you made. And if worst comes to worst, I can include my personal testimony to prove its worth.”

“Your personal testimony of what?”

“I took the dose you gave me so I could find you.”

“You did not.”

“You knew this. We met in Erised.”

“I didn’t think that was real.”

“It was all real. Pulling you out of the Room of Requirement? Killing those thugs? Legilimency.”

It took Albus a moment to put the pieces together, but once he got the picture, couldn’t help himself. “That’s so fucking cool. I didn’t know it could do that. Shared visions! That couldn’t have been it, though. What else did you see?”

Draco looked down at his papers and straightened them. “I’m sure you can imagine.”

“No, I can’t.” Albus propped his chin in his hand.

“Albus Severus Potter, you are going to be the absolute death of me.”

“Least you’ll go out with a bang.”

Draco ignored him. “Don’t tell anyone you came to the Manor. Explain that Auror Ernie Wittmore used the Cruciatus Curse on you, and it took you months to recover. That makes the Department of Magical Law Enforcement the antagonist.”

“But that gets my dad in trouble.”

“Believe me, he can handle it.”

“What about Scorpius?”

“The Healer who called in the tip has no evidence that you were found firecalling him on New Years. It’s hearsay. If anyone brings it up, deny it happened. Instead say in a fit of desperation, you owled Scorpius, who immediately went to look for you, and, finding you had overdosed, took you to hospital.”

James knocked on the door again. “One minute!”

“The last thing they’re going to do is ask what you want. It sounds ridiculous but it’s part of the process—a mind game, almost. Explain that you understand what you’d done was severe, and wrong, and that you knowingly broke the Statute of Secrecy. You’ve already defended yourself thus far, but here, stop. No excuses, no rationale. Point blank: you deserve punishment.”

“It’s really hot when you say that.”

“Albus!”

“It’s not my fault I get turned on when you’re all lawyer-y.”

“Here’s where you need to bring up the plea bargain. Explain you want to take your NEWTs, that you want to fulfill your dream of being a—I don’t know, wizard historian or whatever. Come up with something noble yet modest, something for the greater good. Tell them that in the coming year, you’d like the opportunity for solitude and contemplation.”

“At the Manor, right?”

“Yes, tell them you’d prefer to live with Scorpius. You don’t have to explain why. Offer that you’d happily stay in touch with your family and provide daily check-ins as scheduled. Here’s the final plea, and this is very important—”

Albus knew what he was about to say before he said it, but it still felt like a kick in the teeth.

“Offer them the locket and advise them to destroy it.”

“No fucking way!”

“Albus, that’s the addiction talking.”

“There’s no difference between me and the addiction! The addiction is me, I’m it!”

“That’s not true. You lived fine without Erised for four months.”

“Because I had you!”

“And you still have me. I’m not going anywhere. Remember what you told me about Dark Magick? To get something, you have to give something? The locket is what you’re giving up, and what you’re getting is freedom.”

Albus took a deep breath and reluctantly calmed. “And you.”

Draco’s hand twitched as if to reach out, but thought better of it. “And me.”

James pounded on the door once more. “Time’s up.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Back to Wednesday**

Not six months ago, Draco was detrimentally bored. Years bled away in an instant. He could go months at a time without feeling a single emotion. He looked forward to nothing; he dreaded nothing. Then the Potters entered his life again and now look at him: he was in love in the worst of ways, his son had gotten arrested, and Harry fucking Potter was rushing through his front door at nine o’clock at night with a hood over his head trying to avoid the swarm of reporters, who had been stationed in front of the Manor since word got round Albus Potter had been turned in by Scorpius Malfoy.

Draco slammed the door shut on the barrage of flashes and shouting of questions, and when he turned around again, Harry was holding out a scroll to him. His face was reddened from cold and he looked even worse than he had just a few days ago. His hair was all on end, like it used to be when they were kids. Draco recalled all the time they’d spent together in Erised, in partnership, in peril, in love. Now a near-stranger stared back at him.

“Permit,” Harry said in lieu of a greeting.

Draco took it. “I hope you realize searching the Manor is counterproductive at this point.”

“I know. I came to talk.”

“Then by all means.” Draco ushered him to the sitting room.

Griselda Apparated in and said, “Big big Potter! Come to help Master save big little Potter!” She held out her hand for Harry’s coat.

He offered it to her and said, “Hullo. Yes, I suppose.”

“Be back with tea!” she said.

Before she could snap her fingers, Harry said, “Do you have anything more alcoholic?”

“Aye,” she said, and Disapparated.

“I like her hat,” Harry said, taking a seat on a sofa.

Draco sat in the sofa across. He summoned his casefile from his study and had trouble meeting Harry’s gaze. “I suppose we should get down to business.”

“Actually, first I’d like to apologize for destroying your house.”

The file arrived and Draco began pulling out papers. “Don’t mention it. Nothing a few repair charms couldn’t fix.”

“Well, and—accusing you. You know. Of holding my son hostage. I was a bit out of my mind.”

“Completely understandable,” Draco said as casually as he could manage. “If Scorpius were missing I’d slaughter everything in my path to find him.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“So,” Draco said, passing a piece of parchment over, “if you’ll take a look at what I’ve—”

“Malfoy, listen. I’m not here on business. I’m not here on behalf of Law Enforcement. I’m not even here because my son named you his lawyer.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I know you were involved in this somehow, and I know it’s on your shoulders to get Albus out of this mess, and I want to help in any way I can. This is all off the record. So, please, tell me the truth.”

Draco eyed him. “I need your word.”

“You have it.”

“No, magically. An Unbreakable Vow.”

“Come on, Malfoy.”

“It’s either this or I bill you for a legal consultation.”

Harry seemed to consider this, then sighed and said, “All right. If an Unbreakable Vow is the only way to know the truth, I’ll do it.”

Griselda popped back into the room, tray of firewhiskey and tumblers between her tiny hands. She set it on the table.

Draco handed her his wand and said, “Griselda, would you please bind an Unbreakable Vow for us?”

“Aye, Master,” she said, taking the wand.

Draco held his arm out. Reluctantly, Harry took it. Griselda tapped the wand against their hands.

“Will you swear that everything told to you tonight will remain off the record, not to be used in any way against myself, my son, or your son?” Draco asked.

“I will,” Harry said.

A golden stream came out of the wand and wrapped around their arms.

“Will you answer any question posed to you this evening honestly?”

Draco knew that was an underhanded move. He didn’t care; if he was going to put everything on the line, Harry needed to as well.

Surprised, Harry said, “I will.”

A second stream shot out of the wand and threaded with the first. They both swirled around a moment, then disappeared.

Draco let go. “Thank you, Griselda. You may retire for the evening.”

“Goodnight, Master. Goodnight, big big Potter,” she said, and snapped her fingers.

Draco poured them each two fingers of firewhiskey and handed a glass to Harry. He settled back on the sofa and said, “First I need to know how Albus is doing.”

“Why?”

“We’ll get to that, but I need to know.” In truth, he’d been sick all day over it. Scorpius used his one allowed owl after he’d been arrested to write Draco and tell him Albus would be fine, that he was unconscious but stable, and not to worry. But of course he did worry, because his son was being sent to the Ministry dungeons for doing the right thing, and his almost-maybe-boyfriend-type-person was still in intensive care.

Harry leveled a frustrated look at him as if Draco had pulled one over on him. Draco supposed he had, but it was Harry’s fault for falling for it. “He woke up this morning. He’s in a lot of pain. Grouchier than normal, but otherwise fine.”

Draco took a long, relieved breath, then gathered his courage and said, “Your son arrived here by accident on October third, half-dead and suffering some extreme withdrawal symptoms.”

Harry hesitated, held up a finger, and downed his entire glass. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “You lied to me.”

“You asked me if I knew where your son was, and I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He reached for the bottle and poured himself a refill.

“At that moment, because you would have arrested me for aiding and abetting and I wouldn’t have been able to defend your son in court. When he first arrived, because he wasn’t healthy enough to endure whatever was in store for him. He needed peace and quiet to rehabilitate.”

“And did he?”

“For several months he was clean, happy, and studying for his NEWTs. Then you stormed through my front door and he ran.”

“Why?”

“Shot in the dark, I’d say he was afraid of going to prison.”

“I don’t understand. You could have turned him in and taken the reward money.”

Draco stared at him. “I’m not the cruel boy I once was. Someone comes to me for help, I’m inclined to give it.”

“That’s it. That’s the only reason.”

“He’s my son’s best friend.”

“Scorpius said he had no idea where Albus was until a few days ago.”

Of course Scorpius would go against Draco’s direct orders and answer Law Enforcement’s questions. They probably posed it like a friendly, casual conversation, and it would have never occurred to Scorpius that they were trying to get information out of him. It was an interesting story, after all. He’d tell it to anyone who wanted to listen. No wonder Albus hadn't told him where he was going when he ran away. “I didn’t want to get him involved if he didn’t need to be.”

Harry steadied a glare at him. “So it was just you and my son here, alone, for four months.”

“I’m not sure what you’re implying.” Draco didn’t appreciate the tone directed at him, despite Harry’s suspicions being entirely correct.

“You know exactly what I’m implying.”

“We can end this conversation here if you’d rather.”

“I just—I’m trying to understand why you of all people housed my son, took care of him, rehabilitated him, and are now working pro bono to keep him out of prison.”

Draco scoffed. “‘Me of all people.’”

“You know what I mean. You’ve hated me since we were children.”

“And then you had to go and save the world. Look, Harry—”

“Since when do you call me Harry?”

Draco could feel his face grow hot. It was just the alcohol, he told himself. He ignored him. “You offered a testimonial at my family’s trial after the war. Just let me repay the favour.”

“That’s all this is, then. A favour to me for something I did over twenty years ago.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. I’m trying to do a good thing and you’re interrogating me over it.”

“Fine.” Harry poured himself yet another glass. Draco couldn’t blame him. The day must have been rough. “How did you find him?”

“Pardon?”

“You said when I was here you didn’t know where he was. How did you find him?”

“I took what I thought was the final dose of potion.”

“Erised.”

“It showed me where he was.”

“So it _does_ have some kind of value.”

“If you can make it past the mind-obliterating addictive properties, yes. I found it very...enlightening.”

“In what way?”

He’d forgotten Harry was like this. Observant? Not at all. Perceptive? There was a reason he was Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and it wasn’t because he defeated Voldemort (though it likely didn’t hurt). Growing up with an aunt an uncle like the Dursleys must have taught him early on how to read between the lines.

Draco found himself crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “As you can imagine I’ve got a few regrets. It was good to go back and right them.”

“So you didn’t attempt to kill Dumbledore.”

Draco bristled, and before he could think better of it, he said, “I was tasked with it, but I didn’t do it. In fact I was sorted into Gryffindor and the lot of us worked together.”

“The lot of us.”

“The three of you,” Draco replied. “And me.”

“Together.”

“ _Y_ _es_.”

Potter was smiling at him. The first one he’d ever offered in reality. It punched Draco in the gut just as it had in Erised. “We were friends. Your deepest desire was for us to be friends.”

“We got along very well once I stopped being a prat,” Draco said smugly.

“I knew you liked me.”

“Of course I liked you. Everyone liked you.”

“Not everyone. I was a bit of a prat too.” Harry finished off his drink and poured another. At this rate he was going to get very, very drunk. Draco wondered if he got as flirty drunk as he had in Erised, or if that was specific to the vision. “So this alternate reality where you were a Gryffindor. What was it like?”

Draco needed another drink for this. He poured himself a glass as well. “Not much was different. But I did save your arse on a number of occasions.”

“Oh, do tell.”

So Draco, as much of a glutton for storytelling as Scorpius and already a bit tipsy, having exactly zero willpower left in him after living four months with Albus and then a decade in Erised, recounted what he could remember while describing how the potion worked and its differences from the mirror. Thankfully Harry, who seemed to be getting on the drunk side of things rather rapidly, didn’t ask particularly intrusive questions. In fact he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself and kept interjecting with things like, “Okay, but do you remember what really happened?” and “Oh, I completely forgot about that,” and “You did _what_?”

A few times, Draco made him laugh so hard he had to take his glasses off and wipe his eyes. He refilled his drink every time it was empty and eventually his cheeks grew pink, and Draco had never felt more conflicted in his life—did Albus remind him of Harry, or did Harry remind him of Albus? Was he only in love with Albus because he’d always been in love with Harry? Was that what Erised was really telling him? Did it even matter?

He reached the point during sixth year when Voldemort had tortured him and abruptly stopped. “And, well, you know what happened after that.”

By now Harry had his shoes off and his socked feet tucked under him. His hair had somehow gotten messier than when he first arrived. “You’re just getting to the good stuff. You were a monumental prick sixth year. That had to have been completely different.”

Draco took a long, nervous swig.

“Draco,” Harry said, giving him a look that was a little too close to Albus’ fuck-me eyes.

“Since when do you call me Draco?”

“Since we were apparently besties in an alternate reality. You’ve lived eight whole years with me that I haven’t. It’s only fair you get me up to speed.”

Thank Merlin Draco was tipsy. Or maybe if he weren’t, he wouldn’t have said what came out of his mouth next: “Things were definitely different.”

Harry’s eyebrows nearly raised to his hairline. “And these major differences. Did they have anything to do with, you know.”

“The Vanishing Cabinet? The cursed necklace? The drugged booze?”

Harry grinned. “Your massive fucking crush on me.”

Draco spit out his drink.

“Ooh, I’m right, aren’t I? You can tell me.”

He cast a quick cleaning carm over himself. “You absolute _wanker_.”

“Let me guess, you professed your undying love to me.”

“More like the other way around.”

“Aha! I knew it. Your deepest desire was to shag me.”

“We did a bit more than that.”

Harry’s face lit up. This was not at all how Draco had been expecting this conversation to go. “Tell me everything.”

“Absolutely not. You are a married man.”

“So are you!”

“We’re separated.”

“Ginny and I are—” He stopped himself like he hadn’t meant to say that.

“You’re what?” Draco couldn't help the impish smile that crossed his lips knowing Harry had to answer honestly. 

“We’ve always been, you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Friends. Pretty much always just friends with some sex peppered in when we feel like it. We’ve never been exclusive.”

“Does Albus know?”

“Are you kidding? Al doesn’t even know my middle name. Ginny and I aren’t a secret, he just doesn’t care about anything that doesn’t have to do with him.”

Albus did have a narrow focus; it made him greedy and needy and irritating. Draco liked that about him.

“He spent most of his time here reading every book ever written about you, so he certainly knows it now.”

“He did?”

“You overestimate how much there is to do here. He very nearly went mad whenever I wasn’t paying attention to him.”

“He’s annoying like that.”

“I rather enjoyed it.”

“Really?”

Draco shrugged and stared into his drink. “Kept things interesting.”

“Okay, okay, back to sixth year. We shagged. How did that come about?”

“This may come as a surprise, but you were rather aggressive with your advances.”

“Was I?”

“Very romantic. You said, ‘You’re really very good looking’ and then snogged me into the mattress.”

“Good to know alternate-reality me has good taste.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Harry Potter, are you hitting on me?”

“Have been for thirty years, but thanks for noticing.” He swallowed the rest of his drink. “So, snogged you into the mattress. Then what?”

Draco, emboldened by booze and Harry’s enthusiasm, went on to describe their somewhat peaceful relationship over sixth year, made more intense by the fear hanging over their heads. That led to failing to kill Dumbledore again—here Harry flinched, still an open wound Draco guessed—and the four of them going on the run.

“Then you proposed to me, I said yes, we fought Voldemort, and I died.”

“I proposed?”

“Just skipped right over the dying part.”

“I must’ve been really into you. I didn’t even propose to Ginny. Molly made it just kind of happen and we went along with it. Did you feel the same about me?”

“As much as I could, knowing it wasn’t real.”

“What if it had been?”

“What?”

“Like—what if we really had hooked up in school? Would we be here right now? Would Albus and Scorpius even exist?”

“That’s not something I like thinking about. As happy as we were in Erised, and as bad as things were in reality, it gave me Scorpius. That made it all worth it. I wouldn’t want to risk living in a world without him.”

“You really have changed.”

Draco leaned forward, considered refilling his glass, then thought better of it. “In Erised, sixth year, I asked you what it would take to redeem myself to you in reality.”

“Erised-me knew about real-me?”

“He did, in a hypothetical sense.”

“What did I say?”

“You said that as long as I was the version of myself I am now, that you’d know.”

“Know what?”

“That I was worth forgiving.” It was a question that wasn’t a question but still Draco was nauseated by the implication of it.

Despite this, Harry understood. “To forgive you I’d need an apology.”

“I’d hope nursing your son to health and defending him in the biggest hearing since the Death Eater trials would be enough of an apology, but if I need to say it—” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’ve only just now forgiven myself, so I understand if you can’t.”

“Of course I forgive you.”

Draco blinked several times in rapid succession. “Just like that? It’s that easy?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

“I spent nearly a decade in Erised, so excuse me if I’m reluctant to believe it.”

“A decade? What else happened?”

“Merlin, you don’t even want to know. I made myself a puzzle of seven doors, and behind each I had to confront something I’d locked away, until eventually I had to literally face and forgive myself. But through that I got Albus’ location, woke up, and Apparated to him. Scorpius took him to hospital, and here we are.”

“That’s amazing. That the potion gave you access to details you couldn’t have possibly known. Albus’ location. And the places we went when we were on the run—that’s not in any history book.”

“Your son invented quite the substance.”

Harry stared into the fireplace and nodded to himself. “I can see how it would be addictive. Immediate access to anything you want.”

“It was fine for one use, but—when I found Albus, when he was dying, I tried to save him by going into his mind and pulling him out. I saw what his Erised looked like and it was—” He thought back to Albus’ reflection of reflections, the thugs that tried to kill him. “Terrifying, to say the least. Your son is brilliant. Really, truly brilliant. So brilliant I think it haunts him, like he was born with a better understanding of the world than most, and it crushed him. I don’t think it was anything you did. I think it’s just how he is. The same way my anger and fear turned me cruel, his turned him despondent.

“I think when we’re young, we dichotomize our perceptions. For me, it was purebloods versus Muggle-borns. For you, good versus evil. And for Albus, it’s always been interesting versus boring. You and I are grateful to be bored. We’ve earned our boredom. I’d say we even thought we were offering our children the gift of boredom. Albus isn’t so different from you in that way. He’d fight a thousand Voldemorts sooner than he’d spend an afternoon on the sofa.”

“You know, I always thought the only reason he didn’t get into more trouble was because your son was such a good influence on him.”

“I think so too, and oddly enough, because of that I think he may have found some solace here. And if it’s all right with you, and if we win the case, I’d like him to stay with me. Under the condition he keep in contact with you, of course. And pardon if this is crossing a line, but I’d venture that it might be better for you too. Some space. Some peace.”

“You’re probably right.” After a pause, Harry added, “Look, I really enjoyed this. Like, really. You think we could do it again sometime? Grab a pint maybe, once everything’s settled?”

“I'd love to.”

Draco stood and held out his hand. Harry scoffed at it and opened his arms for a hug, which Draco accepted. When he pulled away, Harry stayed in his space, eyes flicking downward. Draco was about to break the tension by saying something stupid, but before he could, Harry kissed him.

Draco must have taken another dose of Erised. Harry Potter was at his house, a bit drunk, and kissing him.

And Draco was kissing him back, because he’d spent nearly thirty years dreaming of this, so he was going to enjoy it. Predictably, Harry kissed exactly as he had in Erised, sweet yet stern, controlling, and always breaking off far too soon.

Thumbing gently over Draco’s cheek, he said, “Never too late to make up for lost times.”

“Right,” Draco said. His knees had turned liquid.

“I’ll see you at the hearing.”

“Right,” Draco said again, and Harry Disapparated.


	18. Chapter 18

**The following Monday**

A man named Winterbotham presided over the hearing. He looked like the personification of the feeling you get when you step in a small puddle of water whilst wearing socks. Draco had never met him before, never worked with him, and certainly never manipulated or bribed him into anything, which put them at a distinct disadvantage.

This was a public hearing, of course, which meant the stands were stuffed with reporters, many sitting on the floor or in aisles, quills scratching rapidly the entire time. Albus’ family and friends took up nearly the entire left side of the room. Scorpius, Ada, and Draco occupied a table by the stand. Scorpius’ wrists were bound in some fashion of dramatic flair, which was absurd, considering everyone knew he did nothing wrong, and in fact most of the press had declared him a hero except for a few of the tabloids who wanted to add a dark undercurrent to the whole thing. One of the more memorable headlines read _THE MALFOY HEIR’S REVENGE: WAS ALBUS POTTER KIDNAPPED??_ Despite his bindings, Scorpius looked perfectly content on the sidelines, as if there were no doubt in his mind Draco would get them out of this mess and they’d all be home in time for supper. He even managed to capture the attention of a few photographers, who had him pose sullenly for tomorrow’s front page.

Meanwhile, Draco was doing his best to stay composed, piling up the scrolls he’d gathered depending on which direction Winterbotham decided to go. The only thing on their side right now was that he seemed particularly taken by Ada, which Draco knew infuriated her but he was glad for it nonetheless.

When Albus entered, escorted by James and Harry, he was wearing a suit (one Draco didn’t buy him—he’d never purchase brown), and although he looked gaunt, he’d obviously bathed and shaved and was still achingly handsome. Draco felt the surreal imbalance of reality as he remembered just a few hours ago threatening to put Albus over his knee, followed by a few days before that when Harry had kissed him, and he was incredibly grateful for his strict eating habits because otherwise he would be dropping dead of a heart attack.

Upon seeing Draco staring at Harry and Albus, and Scorpius schmoozing the paparazzi, Ada whispered, “Your life is very strange.”

Obviously he had told her everything already. “I know.”

“But exciting, yes?”

He glared at her.

Albus took a seat in the accused’s chair which looked a bit like a throne and existed mostly for intimidation. Winterbotham and the rest of the Wizengamot glowered down at him. Albus thankfully seemed calm.

Harry shot Draco an empathetic glance as he took his own seat behind the accused’s chair. The room quieted of its own accord.

“Albus Severus Potter,” Winterbotham began. His jowls quivered while he spoke and his tongue was so thick it impeded his speech. “You’ve been accused of breaching clauses eleven, twenty-three, and thirty-seven of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy for selling a magical potion of your own making to an unknown number of Muggles. How do you plead?”

Albus paused and glanced at Draco, who gave him a single nod. Reluctant but clear, he said, “Guilty.”

Gasps resounded among the audience and Draco once more lamented the melodramatic tendencies of wizardkind.

“It says here also,” Winterbotham continued, “you’re seeking a plea.”

“I am, sir,” Albus said. “In exchange for the recipe of the potion, the Erised locket I used to make it, and successful completion of my NEWTs, I’d like to request that the default thirty-year Azkaban sentence be lessened to a single year of house arrest.”

Winterbotham actually laughed. “You think because you’re Potter’s boy, we’ll go easy?”

Harry looked like he was about to Imperio Winterbotham into punching his own face, which was nowhere near as threatening as Hermione’s faux-collected expression. Draco wondered if Winterbotham would be mysteriously fired within the coming months.

“No, sir, I think once you hear the full story, the dire conditions in which I sold the potion, as well as properties of it you may find valuable for further experimentation, you and the rest of the council will see that my case is an exceptional circumstance.”

He threw a worried look at Draco, who smiled at him. Nearly verbatim what Draco had written for him.

Winterbotham huffed in frustration and leaned back in his seat, seemingly chuffed at what he thought was going to be a fifteen-minute hearing stretching out far longer. “All right, let’s hear it.”

 

⚕

 

The hearing took six hours. The most stressful six hours of Draco’s life, in fact. Except for maybe when Astoria was in labour. Or the hours preceding Dumbledore’s death. But it was definitely in the top five. The council grilled Albus with questions, only breaking to deflect to Scorpius, who coolly explained his side of the story (even if it was all a lie Draco had prepared, it was still the finest acting he had ever witnessed) and was immediately released, thank Merlin.

Draco had paced the chambers for so long that his feet hurt by the end of it and his voice was hoarse from speaking. Finally, when their entire case had been put out for consideration, Winterbotham said, “We’ll reconvene in the morning with a decision.”

James and Harry took Albus back to the dungeons. With a kiss to Draco’s cheek, Ada went home. Draco and Scorpius Apparated back to the Manor, where Griselda whipped up a very late supper.

Draco was almost too tired to eat, but Scorpius was yammering on about something that had happened at school, as bouncy and happy as usual.

“Aren’t you exhausted?” Draco asked. “You just spent two days in the Ministry dungeons.”

“Have you ever seen the dungeons? They’re just like an inn. There are house elves, and you get your own toilet, and the food is surprisingly good. The bed was nicer than the one I have at school, and I had access to the Ministry library. I felt like I was on holiday.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Scorpius’ expression went serious and he put a hand on Draco’s arm. “Today went great, Dad. It really did. By tomorrow afternoon, Albus will be back home with us and everything will be fine.”

It didn’t make Draco feel better.

 

⚕

 

Despite his exhaustion, Draco couldn’t sleep. Near midnight, he wandered into his study, where he found Scorpius reading on the sofa by the fire. He took a seat beside him. His company calmed Draco better than any draught, as if his presence was the only thing that could make him feel truly complete.

“Can’t sleep?” Draco asked.

“No,” Scorpius said, putting his book aside. “Just don’t want to. Don’t know how long I’ll be home and I’d like to enjoy it.”

“It’s only temporary. Then you can move back into the Manor and get a job at St Mungo’s or wherever else.”

“Yeah, it’s just...hard being away from home.”

“I know the feeling.”

“How? You’ve never been away.”

“This place certainly didn’t feel like home when the Dark Lord— _Voldemort_ was here. I don’t think I came home once all through sixth year. I even stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays. Told them I was scheming. Pathetic, really, how afraid I was.”

“He didn’t stay in my room, did he?”

Draco huffed a laugh. “Of course not. The occupation was mostly on the third floor.”

“So that’s why you’ve filled it with so much junk no one can use it.”

“That’s exactly why. It still smells of werewolves up there. Horrible. You can tackle it once I’m dead.”

“I’ll be sure to hang your portrait up there.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Scorpius brought his knees up to his chest and stared at the fire. “You know, it was surreal growing up here, knowing he lived here, reading about this place and my family and my best friend’s family in books.”

“I'm sorry for that. It was just easier to let you see it as more of a fairy tale than a reality. I wanted to protect you from it.”

“Your history can’t hurt me.”

“I know that now. But I thought it might hurt your perception of me.”

“Nothing can make me love you less, Dad.”

Draco paused, considering, and said, “We could do this the long way if you want, or you can just go in and look around yourself. I won’t let you stray too far.”

“Isn’t Legilimency, like, torture for you?”

“It used to be, but I also had an evil bitch doing it who enjoyed messing with my memories and identity until I had to shovel it all away out of fear. It’ll be different with you. I trust you.”

They turned to face each other on the sofa, just as Draco and Albus had on Christmas. Hesitantly, Scorpius pressed the tip of his wand to Draco’s temple. “Are you sure about this?”

“As sure as I’m going to get.”

“ _Legilimens_.”

Draco let Scorpius into as mind as gently as he could, but he bounced around clumsily anyway. Once he’d gained his footing so to speak, it felt a bit like sequestering a hyperactive toddler. Draco was chasing him around his memories, closing doors as he rushed towards them excitedly, guiding him in this direction and that, as chronologically as he could manage it.

Scorpius, being the phenomenally smart and talented boy he was, got the hang of things quickly, and began rushing around more efficiently than Draco could follow. It was a bit terrifying that he’d become a better Legilimens than Aunt Bella in mere seconds. Draco was beginning to think this was a bad idea, but he tried to relax into it, to keep as much open as he could and let Scorpius explore what he was curious about.

Shame roiled through him as Scorpius reached the Astronomy Tower, but he thankfully didn’t linger there. He did, however, linger at his own birth, at Draco looking down at his infant son, happier than he’d ever been and knowing he didn’t deserve so perfect a being. He took his time through his own childhood, periodically allowing one of Draco’s memories to tangentially feed further into the past—a glimpse of Lucius, of Voldemort, of young Harry Potter—then forwards again, then back, like a pendulum of nostalgia.

Draco had unfortunately grown a little too relaxed with Scorpius zooming around his brain. He wasn’t quick enough to close the door to the memory of kissing Albus in the kitchen. By the time he could at least shut out all the Daddy nonsense, Scorpius was now near the present, watching Harry kiss him in the sitting room, and that’s when Draco pulled the plug.

Unlike everyone else who performed Legilimency for the first time, Scorpius looked just fine at having been aggressively tossed out of Draco’s head. He could make a living at this, Draco thought, with just a little more training.

“My father is a slut,” Scorpius said, grinning maniacally.

“Says the boy who can’t have sex with one partner at a time.”

“ _Won’t_ have sex with one partner at a time. Orgies are the future, Dad. Get with the times.”

Draco put a hand to his now-pounding forehead and lamented every choice he’d ever made.

“I can’t believe you snogged two Potters in one week.”

“Neither can I.”

“See, I thought this was just some weird sex thing. But, like, you’re in love. With both of them. In completely different ways.”

“It’s awful.”

“It’s like, Albus feels more real, yeah? Like that’s tangible, it’s reciprocated, it’s cool and gross and exciting. But Harry feels like, like—”

“Grieving.”

“I didn’t know being in love could hurt so much.”

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“I’m not. Dad, this is all I’ve ever wanted. To see you as a person instead of, I don’t know, an authority figure. I always want you to be my dad, but it would be nice if we could be on the same level now, you know? I just want to know who you are.”

“Well, now you do. You know all of my failings and worse failings and almost-world-ending failings.”

“But also your successes.”

Draco snorted a laugh.

“No, really. You built a business from nothing in an industry that didn’t even exist yet. You grew out of all the brainwashing. You endured a metric fucktonne of trauma. And there’s your biggest success of all.” Scorpius put a hand on his arm and said with the utmost sincerity, “Me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m your favourite.”

“Caught onto that, did you?”

“That I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you? I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

“Bit late for that.”

With genuine sincerity this time, Scorpius said, “Thank you for letting me do that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But now I have questions.”

 

⚕

 

**Tuesday**

Ada, bless her big, beautiful heart, brought Draco and Scorpius lattes from Starbacks or whatever it was called. He and Scorpius stayed up talking until dawn. They entered the courtroom, which was as packed as it was the day prior. Draco tried to make himself look busy as he waited, and to his immense irritation, Scorpius was leaning over a railing speaking animatedly to Rita Skeeter, which meant the Malfoys would probably be featured heavily in the next volume of _Witches & Wizards Gone Wild. _

The council entered and took their seats, all looking nearly as exhausted as Draco felt. Albus followed, Harry and James behind him, and he took a seat in the accused’s chair. He offered Draco a sad, scared smile, which Draco met with what he hoped was an encouraging one.

Once the room fell silent, Winterbotham said a few words of greeting, a short summary of the prior day’s events, an admittance of a very thorough discussion following yesterday’s hearing, and thanking the Minister for _keeping her nose out of it._

Hermione smiled at the joke, but Draco guessed she was already scheming the termination of every council member present.

“We have taken into consideration the circumstances under which the accused acted,” Winterbotham announced, “the curiosity for advancement that drives all of wizardkind, and the potential medicinal properties of the potion. After thorough consideration, however, we feel that the dangerous effects of the potion do not warrant further exploration. Furthermore, while we understand the accused breached the Statute of Secrecy in a way that subverted the obvious magical elements of the potion, and for the sake of survival, we feel he still acted selfishly, unjustly, and moreover put our community at extreme risk.”

Draco couldn’t breathe. Ada put a hand on his knee. In the chair, Albus had gone pale.

“We have determined that Ernie Wittmore will be let go of his position as Auror for performing an Unforgivable Curse. Scorpius Malfoy will receive twenty thousand galleons for his capture of the accused, which—” He looked down and consulted his notes. “—I see here he has already donated in full to the Tanzanian Healing Academy. The locket of Erised will be destroyed. And finally, we have determined that the accused will spend twenty years in Azkaban with a potential for parole after ten, at which point he will be eligible for release under house arrest.”

“No!” Harry shouted, lunging from his chair. James held him back. “You can’t do this! He’s sick! He needs help, not prison!”

“The idea, Mr Potter, is that prison _will_ help.” Winterbotham shot a stream of gold sparks in the air that signaled the hearing was over. “Court is adjourned.”

The volume of the courtroom skyrocketed as the Wizengamot exited and Albus was carted away by James alone. Draco tried to catch his eye but Albus kept his head down. Harry was being comforted by Ginny.

Eventually Draco, Ada, Scorpius, and Albus’ caravan of family were the only ones remaining in the courtroom.

Hermione was the first to speak. “We can fix this. We can—”

“We can’t, Hermione,” Harry said. “It’s over. The decision’s been made.”

“Then what is the bloody point of being Minister of Magic and Head of Magical Law Enforcement if we can’t change the tide to our favour when we need to?”

Ron stared at her. “Who are you and what’ve you done with my wife?”

“Albus has gone astray and it’s no one’s fault. Harry’s right. He shouldn’t be punished for it, he should be rehabilitated. We’ve got to convince the Wizengamot that he belongs in an environment conducive to his recovery.”

“He’s been sentenced,” Ginny said. “There’s no going back. We can only hope for parole.”

“All due respect, Mrs Potter,” Ada said, “but we do have one option.”

Everyone turned their attention towards her.

“We can petition for an appeal. It’s an outdated law, very few people know about it—”

It hit Draco like a brick to the face. Of course. “The Community Petition Pis Aller. Ada, you’re brilliant.”

“It worked for the Klump case, did it not?”

“You’d think the Head of Law Enforcement would know what you’re talking about,” Harry said.

“Or the Minister of Magic,” Hermione added.

“We had a client,” Draco began, “a plumber, and he broke ground on sacred Centaurian land, which, by the way, has a very interesting history. Before the Statute was enacted in 1692—”

“Dad,” Scorpius said, “get to the point.”

“Right, well, the short of it is that these Centaurian treatises were developed to keep wizards off their land, obviously, but it was mostly about keeping the Ministry from communing with Centaurs at all. The laws around the treatises say basically, no exceptions, ever, under any circumstance. But there’s a caveat, obviously there’s a caveat, everything has exceptions and that’s what the law is all _about_ —”

“Dad,” Scorpius said again.

“My point is, the only way to get anything done at the Ministry is to annoy the piss out of them.”

“Erised has nothing to do with sacred Centaurian land, though,” Hermione said.

“No, it doesn’t, but the Community Petition Pis Aller was so poorly and hastily written that it can basically be applied to any court decision.”

“The press has been slaughtering Albus,” Harry said. “There’s no way we can get community support on this. They’ve been comparing him to Voldemort for a year.”

“Well, yes, but be optimistic here. We have—” He pointed to Ada. “—a brilliant and cunning Half-Veela.” Then to Scorpius. “A charismatic, selfless hero the press have been loving.” Ginny and Ron. “A popular sports reporter and proprietor of the happiest place in Diagon Alley.” Hermione. “The most gracious Minister of Magic in all of history.” And lastly, Harry. “And our lord and saviour, the Boy Who Lived, Harry fucking Potter.”

“I’m not going to use my fame for personal gain,” Harry said.

“If you can’t cash in on saving the world when your son is facing a decade in prison, when can you?”

“He’s got a point, mate,” Ron said.

“It’s the only chance we’ve got, Harry,” Hermione added.

“I’m in,” Ginny said.

Harry gave Draco a long look. “All right. What do we have to do?”

 

⚕

 

**Wednesday**

Winterbotham, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, James, Scorpius, Albus, Draco, and two other Aurors had re-convened at the council chambers the following day immediately prior to Albus’ transition to Azkaban. James and another Auror held each of Albus’ arms. The third Auror stood guard at the door. The rest of them huddled in a small circle.

Harry passed the locket to Hermione. Draco’s heart pounded in his chest, but Scorpius seemed completely calm. Albus had his eyes trained on the locket, unblinking. Draco had silently hoped he would look angry, or sad, or anything that showed he had some semblance of fight left in him. But he only looked defeated. Emptiness lay behind his eyes, and Draco wanted to shred Winterbotham apart with his bare hands for doing this to him.

“How does this work?” Winterbotham asked.

“The way we destroyed the mirror,” Hermione said, “was by using an alchemical spell that turns the silver residing behind the glass into obsidian. Then we shatter it.”

She floated the locket into the air. It hovered above them, and she recited a lengthy incantation, her wand aloft. When she fell silent, nothing happened, and Draco thought for sure the locket would transfigure back into a shoelace.

It was a testament to Scorpius’ transfiguring abilities that the locket shivered, glowed brightly, and then made a horrendous wrenching noise. With another flick of Hermione’s wand, it shattered into tiny glittering granules that showered over them.

Albus’ knees gave out but James caught him. Draco was expecting him to scream or cry, but he only hung onto his brother and stared blankly at a point in the distance.

They took turns with their goodbyes, each hugging him, not knowing what to say. Draco was last. He wanted so badly to tell him they had a plan, they would get him out soon, but he didn’t know for sure yet if it would work, and he didn’t want James to overhear him. Instead he held on to Albus tightly and tried so, so hard to keep it together, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He wept silently into the crook of Albus’ neck. It could be ten years. Ten years without this. Without him.

Albus whispered, “You did everything you could.”

 

⚕

 

**Thursday**

The first Community Petition planning meeting went as well as could be expected, considering over half of them were hard-headed leader types. Draco, thankfully, was not one of them. He wondered how Harry and Hermione had been working together peacefully at the Ministry for so long. Oddly enough, they met at the Burrow, which was exactly how it looked in Erised, a big lumpy house in the middle of nowhere. Draco would have been disgusted to be here as a teenager, but now he looked around the place in wonder. It was cramped and full and the polar opposite of the Manor. Scorpius made himself at home quickly, because he was comfortable everywhere he went. Draco was thrilled to finally meet Molly and Arthur Weasley, who looked puzzled yet warmed by his enthusiasm. Arthur took an immediate liking to Ada and insisted she follow him to his workshop to look at his collection of Muggle things.

It took the entire day, but they agreed on a lengthy and arduous plan of action to collect ten thousand magically sealed signatures, which in itself was an exhausting process, like a miniature Unbreakable Vow for each one. Once they got them, they could then present it to the Wizengamot with a formal request for an appeal. There would be an unbearable amount of red tape and stalling, but they had the Minister of Magic on their side to move things along.

With the plan in place, Molly cooked a large meal and Ron provided many alcoholic beverages, so the somber mood of the meeting lifted just fractionally with the additional help of Scorpius and his thrilling yet graphically described Healing Academy adventures. Once he had broken the ice, the rest followed suit, and they allowed themselves to forget, for just a few hours, they were once more missing the central force that they’d all been revolving around for years.

Scorpius was now standing on the table for some reason, the entire clan listening avidly to some story that required many physical gestures and a performance of multiple characters to whom he gave distinct voices. Harry leaned over to Draco and asked, “Like to take a walk?”

“Sure.”

Outside, it was snowing, but there was no wind. It was completely silent in a way found only in the dead of winter. A bubble had been cast over the Burrow which warmed the immediate vicinity ten degrees and made it bearable to be outside.

“I'm sorry if you think this is strange,” Draco said before he could chicken out, “but I care deeply about your son. And I believe he feels the same for me.”

“I figured that out, yeah,” Harry replied. “But, you know, it makes sense.”

“It does?”

“Albus has always been impressionable. He’s always wanted someone to guide him. Someone who wasn’t me. And he’s been obsessed with you for years.”

“I can only imagine what that must have been like.”

“You ask me, I think he tends to confuse attraction and admiration.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“I don’t really want to know how you’ve handled that, but I do want you to know I trust you, and I trust you have Albus’ best interests at heart even when he doesn’t. I know you won’t hurt him, but I can’t guarantee he won’t hurt you, in the end.”

“I know, and I appreciate your concern. He has a lot of growing to do, and if he grows away from me, I think I can accept that.”

They fell silent as they continued walking the perimeter of the warming charm. It occurred to him briefly to reach out and hold Harry's hand, a habit he'd developed in Erised whenever they walked together. Just one dose had brought him to this, a drastic split in perception, and he wondered how many years Albus had lived in his own mind. Decades? Centuries? Was Albus actually much older than Draco? Was that why their age difference didn't feel nearly as wide as it was? 

“Listen, about the other night—” Draco began.

“I know. It’s fine. I’m sorry I—”

“No, really, you have no idea how much we—how much I cared for you, in our Erised history. How much I wanted you in reality but could never admit it to myself.”

“It’s mutual, you know. Always has been.”

While the thought that Harry had always been interested in Draco thrilled him, it also deeply saddened him. “I think we might have missed our chance.”

“I think we did too. But that doesn’t mean we can’t start over. As friends, I mean.”

Draco smiled to himself. “I’d like that.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for the thrilling conclusion! (The next chapter is an epilogue.)

Albus promised himself he’d keep track of the days in Azkaban, but there were no windows, so he could only count how many times he slept. After a dozen, he lost count. Before he’d been sent away, he wanted to ask his father why he let this happen, why he could lead the entire department which enforced the laws but couldn’t do anything about the Aurors dragging his son away; why his aunt was the leader of wizardkind in the UK but still couldn’t overturn the ruling of a sniveling old man no one had heard of; why he hired the best lawyer in the country who worked tirelessly to put up the best defence for him, and still he was sentenced to Azkaban.

But when he saw them all for the last time, he couldn’t ask any of those things, because James had been right: this was what he deserved. Not just for breaking the law, but breaking his family, for causing immense suffering among the people he loved most. When saying his goodbyes, he almost said, _I hope I die in there._ Or, _I hope you never have to see me again._

Instead, while his father walked him out of the council chambers and towards the Azkaban Portkey, Albus had said, “I never meant to hurt you.”

What he was expecting from his father: _But you did._

What his father actually said: “We’ll get you out, Albus. We’ll do everything we can. I promise.”

It was then Albus realized his father was as good and kind and noble as everyone always said he was, as the history books made him out to be. Albus had been wrong his whole life, and now it was too late to do anything about it.

His robes were made of scratchy linen that left him shivering in sleep. He slept on a cot stuffed with hay. The cell smelled like mildew. The only light came from a single flickering sconce on the wall.

During his waking hours, Albus counted the bricks.

 

⚕

 

He practiced closing his eyes and pushing himself into Erised. He tried to will his imagination to craft all the conceits the mirror had showed him, to relive the hedonism of the fantasies he’d been offered. But all he could think about were the real moments: the years he’d spent at Scorpius’ side, the times he was too busy with schoolwork or petty drama or some ridiculous scheme to use the mirror, when life could sometimes be better than what he saw in Erised. He thought about summers with his family, when he’d sleep for days at a time in withdrawal, passing the hours until he could go back to school, the stress and fear and worry the mirror wouldn’t be there when he returned, his family trying desperately to engage him in backyard Quidditch or games or meals or holidays. He thought of his mother snuggled at his bedside reading a story to him when he was young. Falling asleep in his father’s lap. Brushing Lily’s hair. Building forts with James. Playing chess with Teddy. Days and days spent in his uncles’ joke shop, testing all the new products. Hiding under his aunt’s desk in Ministry-wide hide-and-seek games. The cacophony of the Burrow, how it always smelled like freshly baked bread, the warmth of his grandmother’s hand-knit sweaters, whispered secrets about all the Muggle devices his grandfather had hidden throughout the house.

He thought about all the family and friends who had passed already, the ones he never got to know at all: Fred, Remus, Sirius, Tonks. Both his namesakes. His paternal grandparents.

He thought about Draco, kissing him, waking up beside him, the months they’d spent playing games and talking and taking peaceful walks about the grounds, the way Draco always looked secretly thrilled to be irritated, the silvery spark of his eyes when he spoke about something passionately enough, his goofy boyish laugh.

He thought too about himself. He thought about the suffering he had caused. He let himself weep in self-pity, until self-pity turned to sorrow, and sorrow to guilt, and guilt to mourning. And then he grieved. He grieved so deeply he thought his heart would slow to a halt. He cried every tear he had ever denied himself.

Until finally, they stopped.

He expected to feel numb, to succumb to a psychic death, but he had never felt more alive. He could feel every speck of grit under his feet, every straw of hay in his cot, every breath escaping his lungs, every beat of his heart. He began pacing his cell, round and round, until his feet blistered and callused. He put himself on a physical routine to keep his mind active, present; his body moving, blood flowing—push-ups, sit-ups, running in place. He counted his sleeps more diligently. He allowed his mind to roam so free that eventually, for the first time in his life, it quieted.

He would survive this, and he would make amends.

 

⚕

 

One day—he wasn’t sure how long it had been, months?—his cell door opened and a guard jostled him to standing. They wore black masks and robes. Periodically they would do this to cast a cleaning charm over himself and the cell, and the door would close again, and he would be alone. In the beginning, he would ask what time it was, what day it was, what the weather was like, but when they wouldn't speak, he gave up trying.

This time, they bound his wrists and dragged him out of the cell. He knew better not to ask. He was probably being given a proper bath, a rare allowance but one he'd become intensely grateful for.

Instead, he was guided down flights of steps, nearly stumbling, and dragged out the front entrance. The sunlight nearly blinded him. The air was chill but thick with humidity and the smell of the sea—springtime. The guard tossed him roughly into a boat, and another rowed him to shore.

 

⚕

 

A Portkey took him to the Ministry dungeons, where he was met with a chatty boy about his own age who spoke so quickly that Albus had a hard time parsing out the words. It had been so long since he’d heard another person speak or spoken himself, he wasn’t sure he remembered how.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the boy. His voice felt like the churning of rusty gears. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

“You’ve been released, mate,” the boy said, and shoved a pile of clothes into his hands.

He got dressed in a toilet stall. They were clothes from his bedroom at home. They smelled like the cedar of his chest of drawers, the floral cleaning potion his grandmother brewed. He washed his hands and let the water run so hot it nearly burned him. He scrubbed clean his nails, ran wet hands through his hair to straighten out the tangles. When he looked at his reflection, he didn’t recognize himself. His skin was pale but clear, eyes unfocused but bright, body thin but strong. He looked hardened and calm, neither happy nor sad, and…

Brave, he thought. Brave. Like his father.

 

⚕

 

They were waiting for him in Aunt Hermione’s office. All of them, his whole family. His mother and father were the first hug him, then his sister and Teddy. James shook his hand and congratulated him coldly. His grandmother had knitted him a sweater (“It must have been freezing in there,” she said, expecting him to put it on right away as if he were still cold). His uncle had put together a buffet of greasy food and colorful pastries. His aunt couldn’t stop crying.

Draco and Scorpius were not in attendance.

Albus had a hard time believing any of this was real, so he stood there numbly for what felt like hours while everyone around him celebrated. On a table sat an array of newspapers and magazines, fanned out on display. He occupied himself by rooting through them. The first, the earliest, was a front page of the _Prophet,_ his sentencing, a picture of himself on the accused’s chair. Next, an exposé with Scorpius. Albus picked this one up and read the first few paragraphs—it was about Albus. What a good friend he was. What really happened the night Scorpius had inadvertently turned him in. The next paper, a lengthy op-ed about the dangers of addiction and the properties of the Elixir of Erised. An exclusive interview with Harry Potter. Minister of Magic announces new legislation. Weasley Wizard Wheezes offers half-off all purchases for petition signers. Magazines with his face on the cover, headlines like, _ALBUS POTTER: WOUNDED SOUL OR EVIL MASTERMIND?_ and _SKEETER TO RELEASE TELL-ALL POTTER FAMILY BIO._ Flyers that read, _DOES THE PUNISHMENT FIT THE CRIME? SIGN THE PETITION TO RELEASE ALBUS POTTER TODAY._

On the very bottom of the stack, an issue of the _Prophet_. The front page was something about Gringotts undergoing construction to expand their vaults. Albus turned it over. At the very bottom was a small headline that read, _YOUR DAILY DOSE OF IRONY: EX-DEATH EATER TO SPEARHEAD RELEASE OF POTTER BOY._

Uncle George slapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon, cheer up. Ron’s cooking can’t be that much worse than prison food, yeah?”

“How did all this…” Albus began.

“We petitioned your release,” his father said, reaching an arm around his shoulders. He appeared to be tipsy already. “Your lawyers’ idea.”

“And when that got tangled in red tape, we had to pass some additional legislation into effect,” Aunt Hermione added. Though she was dabbing her eyes with a rumpled tissue, she had emphasized _additional legislation_ in a way that sounded vaguely threatening.

“Also your lawyers’ idea,” his father said. “And now we’re a bit buried in prison reform.”

“Also your lawyers’ idea,” Uncle Ron said.

“We should probably hire them,” his father added. “They’re very good.”

“They’re defence attorneys. They work against us. That’s the whole point of them,” Aunt Hermione said.

“I need to step outside a moment,” Albus told them.

He rushed out of the room and down a hallway without knowing where he was going. He hit a dead-end, a locked door, turned his back to it and slid down until his forehead rested against his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, he’d be back on his hay cot, waiting for the slot in the door to open and a tin of gruel thrown at his feet. And he’d do this three times a day for ten years or more, and he’d never see anyone he loved ever again. Erised cost him a decade of his life to addiction; the consequences of the addiction itself cost him another.

Someone came and sat beside him, close but not touching. Based on the scuffed-up Chucks, he guessed it was his father.

“Bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Albus said.

“The party seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It’s okay, really. I’m happy to see you all.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Albus shook his head. “I don’t deserve to be here. Winterbotham sentenced me to twenty years, and he was right to do it.”

“We have a petition with over ten thousand signatures that says otherwise.”

“It’s not me they were signing for. It was for you and Mum and Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron and Scorpius, who I guess is a hero now or something.”

“The press are obsessed with him. I just don’t get it.”

“You didn’t grow up with him. It never stops. His blood is made of Amortentia.”

Harry snorted a laugh. “If it makes you feel any better, I sent a team out after the trial to assess the Statute damage. The guys you sold to—they had no idea what they were taking. They didn’t know it was a magical potion. They thought it was a really weird kind of dope. We didn’t need to Obliviate them because the potion did it for them.”

“What do you mean?”

“They could barely remember what they hallucinated. Of all the potential breaches of the Statute, you’re up there with Jenkins and his card tricks. The person you hurt most was yourself.”

Albus rested his forehead on his knees again. “I wish I’d never found the mirror.”

“I wish Dumbledore had destroyed it along with the Stone. I’m guessing he saw it for its potential like you did. Would’ve never thought to alchemize it though. Brilliant work on your part. Dangerous, but brilliant.” He paused and added, “Don’t tell your mother I said that.”

“I still feel like I...I don’t know, like I need to do something.”

“Couldn’t hurt to visit your grandparents now and again.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am too. Come play Quidditch with your mum and me sometime. Take your sister out for that disgusting food you both like. Work the till at the joke shop. And for the love of Merlin, let Hermione pick your brain about alchemy. She’s had the recipe for Erised on her desk for months trying to figure out how you did it. She won’t shut up about it. Ron’s considering divorce.”

“Useless now. The locket is broken.”

“Right, but according to her, you also developed a whole new process that can be applied to alchemizing other stuff.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know and frankly I’m not nearly enough of a nerd to care. But that’s what I’m saying. We all want you back in our lives.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, until Albus asked, “Where’s Scorpius?” And more hesitantly, “And Draco?”

“We invited them but they said they didn’t want to intrude, and that they’d see you when you were ready.”

Albus almost laughed. That was Slytherin code for _give him some fucking space._ He could imagine Scorpius saying something like, “Gryffindors are all excited puppies, the lot of them.”

After a pause, his father added, “Draco asked my blessing for you to live at the Manor.”

Albus froze. “And?”

“I said it was fine with me, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Would you be upset if I said it was?”

“No, as long as—” He took a breath. “Look, I’m not trying to be an arsehole or anything, but I need to be very clear about this. If you feel like you’re being manipulated, or pressured, or—”

“Dad!”

“Okay, okay. I just had to say something. I don’t need any details." He looked pained now, eyes on his feet, but he continued, "Your mother and I want to support you wherever you go as long as it’s a healthy choice for you. And we’re not requiring it, but I would really like if you’d keep in touch with us.”

“I’d like that too.”

“I know you probably want to go there now, but would you mind staying with us just a bit? Ron’ll be heartbroken if you don’t try his bar-bee-cue sliders.”

“Barbecue, Dad.”

He grumbled as he pulled himself to standing, then held out a hand to Albus. “You’ve gotten him on a bit of a kick. He wants to go to America now.”

Albus took his hand and stood. “I’d be in for that.”

 

⚕

 

Apparently Albus had been in Azkaban over three months. It was almost June now. Everyone was drunk, the food had all been eaten, and Aunt Hermione had finally stopped crying. Except, once Albus offered to go out for coffee and discuss the potion sometime, she started up again, and hugged him, and told him how much she loved him and wanted him to be happy.

Then his mother approached him with an appraising look. She had what James referred to as Resting Bitch Face because she didn’t smile much, but Albus knew it was just because everything about her was brutally honest. She smiled when she was happy, and she didn’t see any other point in doing so. She was also brutally honest when she told him, point-blank, “I wanted you to go to prison.”

“I know,” Albus said.

“But not for ten years or twenty or whatever. Just long enough to knock you right again. Three months seems like long enough.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too. You want to get out of here, yeah?”

“You have no idea.”

“C’mon then,” she said. She glanced back at her husband and gave him a look (Uncle George was showing him something that was making a very high-pitched whirring noise) and he gave her a responding look and that appeared to be all that needed said. They were telepathic, his parents. He always assumed they never fought out loud because they could always do it in their heads, but now he was beginning to think maybe they just didn’t fight. They disagreed on nearly everything, sure, but that didn’t seem to bother them.

She led him out of the Ministry through Aunt Hermione’s special entrance, since you couldn’t Apparate in the Ministry itself. Outside, the sun was setting, and it was warm but there was a breeze to signal it would get colder by nightfall.

“The Manor?” his mum asked.

He didn’t want to know what all she or anyone else knew, and he knew instinctively she didn’t want more information than what she’d been provided anyway. She was good in that way. And many others. She was kind of perfect, and Albus was surprised it had taken him so long to realise it.

“Yeah,” he said.

She took him by the hand and Apparated.

When they landed at the entrance to Malfoy Manor, she kissed him on the cheek and said, “Owl us in the morning, will you? Ron and George called dibs for tomorrow.”

“Dibs on what?”

“Hanging out with you.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Albus said, and she Disapparated.

The front door swung open before Albus could even make it up the steps.

“We put up an alarm because of the press,” Scorpius explained as Albus approached. He leaned against the doorjamb. “Now we get this obnoxious gong noise whenever anyone Apparates onto the grounds.”

“Scorp,” Albus began. He wanted to reach out for a hug but didn’t know if it would be welcome.

“I hope you’re about to say, ‘I’m sorry for almost dying, and getting you arrested, and making you take a semester’s leave.’”

“I was going to ask you to get out of my way. I’m here to shag your father.”

“You’re the worst person I’ve ever known,” Scorpius said, but he was smiling. Then he held his arms out and Albus happily embraced him.

“How was prison?” he asked when he let go. Albus followed him into the Manor.

“Honestly? Could’ve been better.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Scorpius led him through the drawing room into the kitchen. The Manor hadn’t changed at all, not that it would in three months, given that it was a billion years old, but the pillars did look shabbier than when he left, like they’d been shattered and shoddily _Repairo_ ’d back together.

“Our new roommate’s finally arrived,” Scorpius said as he entered the kitchen. “Looks a bit sketch, if you ask me.”

And there Draco was, chopping vegetables by hand for some reason, standing exactly where he’d been before all this started, right where they’d kissed. He stopped when Albus entered. They stared at each other in silence. He wore a lavender button-up shirt Albus hadn’t seen before and which made him think Draco probably had entire wardrobes he rotated seasonally.

“Potter,” he said, setting the knife down and wiping his hands on the tea towel over his shoulder.

“Mr Malfoy,” Albus replied.

Draco was the first to break. He grinned—with his whole face in fact, teeth and all—and swept Albus into a hug so tight it lifted him off the ground. Albus buried his face in the crook of Draco’s neck and felt a sting in his eyes. It was the first real breath he’d taken in months.

Albus let himself indulge in every bit of it, the smell of Draco’s cologne, the familiar feel of their bodies pressed together, the reverberation between them whenever they were together, like a never-ending harmonious note no one but them could hear.

When Draco pulled away, he was still smiling, eyes glassy. He brushed a lock of hair out off of Albus’ forehead and tucked it behind his ear.

“Welcome home, Albus.”

 

⚕

 

Even though Albus had eaten plenty at the party, he still managed to eat the full meal Draco and Scorpius prepared. He drank the wine offered. He even put his napkin in his lap without being asked. Draco sat at the head of the table, adjacent to Scorpius and Albus. Scorpius drank most of the wine himself and blathered through the entire meal getting Albus up to speed on everything that had gone on while he’d been in Azkaban.

“It was like a movie,” Scorpius said, then to his father: “That’s like a really long moving picture that tells a story.”

“Ah,” Draco said.

“Ada and Dad were _ferocious._ And your parents and aunt and uncle never let up, not for one second. They didn’t break the law but they certainly bent it in half. The history books haven’t done them justice in my opinion. They get shit done, the lot of them.”

“We should write one,” Albus said.

“What, a history book?”

“Yeah, like, who better to write one than the children of people who made history?”

“It’ll be like a cross between Skeeter and Gainsborough. Funny and entertaining, but—”

“Thorough and well-researched.”

“Exactly.”

“Is this how you two got into so much trouble all the time?” Draco asked. “You just riff off each other until one of you does something ridiculous?”

“Pretty much,” they said in unison.

“Speaking of trouble,” Scorpius said, pushing his empty plate away and picking up the wine bottle. “Now that we’re all together again, it might be time to clear the air a bit.”

Albus’ stomach dropped. He looked at Draco, who was steadfastly looking in the other direction.

“We all have a few confessions to make, I think.” Now Scorpius looked to Draco. They had a silent conversation between them. Draco’s face was threatening, Scorpius’ flippant.

Finally Scorpius said, “I’ll start.” He topped off his glass of wine as well as Albus’ and Draco’s. “Dad, I played a much bigger role in the whole affair than Albus let on.”

“Scorpius, you don’t have to do this,” Albus said.

“Look, if we’re going to make this bizarre setup work, we need to be honest with each other.” He turned his attention back to Draco. “Alchemizing the mirror was my idea. I knew Albus was running away but I didn’t support it. His only betrayal was not keeping in contact after he left, which I understand now was a way of trying to keep me out of trouble. He hid those memories from you, but I assure you, I’m just as much at fault for all this as he is.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Albus said.

“It’s fine regardless,” Draco replied. “You wouldn’t be my son if you didn’t nearly kill yourself and everyone else in pursuit of your ambition.”

“Albus,” Scorpius continued, “I’m glad you’re home, but I want you to know from the bottom of my heart, no matter what happens, I will literally always side with my father.”

“That’s fair,” Albus said.

“I mean it. He could straight-up murder you and I’d use my knowledge of anatomy and obscure international Portkeys to scatter your organs across the world.”

Draco was smiling at him with a terrifying amount of adoration, as if touched that his son was so easily willing to help him get away with homicide.

“That’s...a pleasant thought,” Albus added, “but I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

“Good. And lastly—” The table rattled, there was a thump, and Scorpius winced. “Nope, that’s it, that’s all I’ve got. Your turn, Albus.”

“Oh, okay, um,” Albus took a fortifying gulp of wine. “Well, Scorpius, this is probably obvious but I’ve had a thing for your dad for as long as I can remember and living with him for four months only made it worse.” He looked at Draco, who was feigning composure but actually turning a splotchy shade of red. Albus wanted to know how much farther it went, down his chest maybe, or—he stopped himself before he could get too distracted. “A lot worse.”

“All right, enough, I get the picture,” Scorpius said.

“And Draco, Scorpius and I have actually—” He made a hand gesture between them. “You know.”

Draco looked not to Albus, but Scorpius in shock. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to think there was anything between us. It was just Slytherin dorm stuff. You know what it’s like. Everyone in everyone else’s bed.”

Draco paused, horrified. “That is not at _all_ what they were like when I was there.”

“That’s unfortunate. It was a lot of fun."

"Also," Albus continued, "I masturbate in your bed when you aren't home."

"I knew it!" Draco said.

"You're not mad?"

"Of course not. It's...really hot."

"Dad!" Scorpius said. "We're moving on. Your turn.”

“All right,” Draco began. He stared at his wine glass and spun it at the stem. Rapidly he said, “Albus, I’ve been in love with your father most of my life and while I was in Erised we were in a committed relationship for several years and also in reality the week before your hearing he kissed me.”

Silence flooded the room. Neither Draco nor Scorpius were breathing.

“I’m sorry,” Draco added.

Then Albus laughed. He laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes. He laughed until he could barely breathe.

“How is that funny?” Draco demanded.

“It’s just so fucking weird,” Albus replied, trying to catch his breath. “It’s all so fucking weird.”

“You’re not upset with me?"

Albus made a vague hand gesture. "Perspective. Three months in prison will do that to you."

“I think it’s neat,” Scorpius said. “A bizarre pseudo-incestuous love square between the Boy Who Lived, an ex-Death Eater, Voldemort Lite, and _Witch Weekly_ ’s newly announced Sexiest Man of the Year. I just need to fuck Harry Potter and the square can be complete.”

They both stared at him.

“What? He’s attractive.”

“Ugh, Scorp, come on,” Albus said.

“Are you kidding me right now, Albus?”

“My dad looks his age. Your dad’s a fucking model.”

“I’m right here,” Draco said, though he looked very pleased.

“We’re not going to play a game of Whose Dad Is Hotter,” Scorpius said.

“You could if you wanted.” Draco took a sip of wine.

Scorpius tried to tip off his glass again but the bottle was empty. “Oh well, I better turn in anyway. Dad, do you have any confessions for me?”

“Of course not, I tell you everything.”

“Thought so. Well, this has been fun. And vaguely disturbing, but at least the air is clear. We’ll deal with any consequences later.” He stood from the table and kissed Draco on the cheek. As he left the dining room he said, “The Manor echoes, so remember what we always say at the Academy: ‘Be a bro and _Muffliato_!’”

 

⚕

 

Albus lay awake in his bed. _His_ bed. Not the guest bedroom bed. Not a cot on the floor of his cell. Not the top bunk of the bedroom he had shared with James. A bed. His bed. The bed that was his, that he could sleep in every night, and wake in every morning, and neglect to make until Griselda finally gave in and did it for him.

After dinner, Albus had helped Draco clear the table.

“We should wait,” Draco said, avoiding his gaze. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure you need your rest.”

“Yeah,” Albus agreed. “It’s been a long day.”

So they parted ways for the night. Albus took a hot shower and nearly wept at how good it felt to be truly clean again. He brushed his teeth. He shaved the scraggly beard he’d grown. A pair of pyjama bottoms had been laid out for him—Draco’s. Soft and cotton and well-worn. His wand was waiting for him at his bedside. His dragonhide satchel was tucked safely in a drawer. The windows in his bedroom were open and let in the sweet evening air.

Draco had done a bit of decorating while Albus was gone. He enchanted the ceiling like in Scorpius’ room, except instead of showing the sky as it was, it showed only rotating constellations. A small bookshelf had been built in the corner, full of Albus’ NEWT materials and his favourite of Scorpius’ books.

His room. His bed. His home.

His Draco.

Just a hallway away, falling asleep alone. Months of working to get Albus released, waiting, putting his reputation on the line.

And suddenly Albus couldn’t bear the thought of spending another moment away from him.

 

⚕

 

The door was already open a crack when Albus reached Draco’s bedroom. He didn’t bother knocking, just gently pushed it open and went inside. The bedside lamp was on. Draco was propped against his headboard, a pair of glasses perched on his nose, reading one of his trashy paperbacks.

He looked up when Albus entered and took off his glasses, then set them and his book aside.

Silently, Albus lifted the covers and slid under them. Draco lay down and pulled them over their heads. They were facing each other, just like in Erised. Exactly like in Erised.

“I remember this,” Albus said.

“Me too.”

Albus leaned forward and touched their foreheads together. “What should we do now?”

Draco closed his eyes and said, “Sleep.”

Albus tried to stifle his smile as he whispered, “But Daddy.”

Draco let out an exhale that was almost a moan. He gripped Albus’ hip and dragged him closer “Again.”

“Daddy, please,” Albus breathed. Their lips brushed. “I’ve waited so long.”

Draco made a frustrated noise in his throat and pressed their lips together, hand immediately in his hair, gripped in his fist. It was just as violent as their first and Albus was hard embarrassingly quickly.

“Tell me what you want,” Draco said, pulling Albus’ hair back so he could trail down his throat with kisses. 

“Want you inside me.”

Draco moaned again and Albus could feel it reverberate through his neck. He slid his hand into the front of Albus’ pyjamas. Albus let out a shocked groan and his hips moved of their own accord once Draco had curled his hand around his cock. He only had to look at Albus the wrong way and he could probably come untouched. Thankfully he seemed to notice that Albus’ breathing had gone shallow and his body tensed, and rolled him over on his stomach. Albus let himself stretch, sink into the pillows—the smell of Draco, the comfort of home—willed himself to relax even though all he wanted to do was rut shamelessly against the sheets.

Draco settled between Albus’ legs and trailed kisses down his spine. When he reached the curve of Albus’ arse he tugged the pyjamas down, just to his thighs. He muttered a few spells at the small of Albus’ back. Albus continued to be in awe of the amount of wandless magic he knew. How with just a few words he could—

Albus had to bite the pillow to keep from crying out, and he grabbed the base of his cock to keep from coming.

—stretch Albus open, slick him up. At Hogwarts, everything had been manual. No one wanted to risk a sex spell fiasco. But this. This was amazing. Merlin, he loved magic.

Draco slipped a finger inside him, then a second. Albus pushed back to meet him. No stretch, just fullness and a need for more; it didn’t hurt a bit.

Draco kissed his way back up until he was brushing Albus’ hair off the nape of his neck and kissing there, too. Lips below Albus’ ear, he said, “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” Albus said, pushing back against his hand. “Please, Daddy.”

Draco pulled his fingers out and replaced them with his cock. Albus couldn’t even moan, could only bury his face in the pillow and try to breathe. Draco was so much bigger than anyone or anything else he’d taken. He felt more full—more complete—than he ever had before.

Draco fucked him slowly, silently, kissed and bit his neck and shoulder, pulled his hair. It was nothing like the dorm fumbling orgies he was used to, nothing even like Erised. He couldn’t have ever devised this for himself, the feeling of being truly loved.

Draco turned him over and slid back into him, kissed him deeply until he began panting, their lips resting on each other’s, Albus clinging to Draco, dragging nails down his back. His cock was trapped between them, slick-wet and sliding against Draco’s stomach with every thrust into him.

“I’m—” Albus began. He couldn’t finish the thought. He could barely think at all. He wanted to stave off, to allow this to go on forever. It seemed too plausible that this could be taken away from him, that it could all shatter in seconds. He needed to relish in it, appreciate it, stay here in these blankets with this man he loved so much he thought it might kill him.

Draco took Albus’ cock in hand and stroked it in time with his movements. It only took a few seconds for Albus to spill all over himself with a moan that Draco kissed into silence. Then Draco was coming too, filling him and sending another wave of pleasure through him.

Draco rested his forehead on Albus’, just breathing, absently kissing, as if he couldn’t get enough of him, as if he wanted all of him, all the time.

With a muttered spell, Draco cleaned them both up and fell back onto the bed. He threw another spell at the lamp, which immediately darkened. Albus curled on his side and rested his head on Draco’s chest. They lay in silence for a long moment, and for the first time in Albus' life, he appreciated reality more than he wanted Erised. 

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” Draco asked, combing gentle fingers through Albus' hair. 

“Getting me out of Azkaban.”

“It was a group effort.”

“And for saving my life.”

“That was all Scorpius.”

“And for taking care of me.”

Draco pressed a kiss to the top of Albus’ head. “It’s my pleasure.”


	20. Epilogue

**One year later**

In all two decades of Scorpius’ existence, he had never actually fought with his father. Even when he was young, Draco would sit him down and discuss very reasonably whatever they had disagreed about. A three-years-old Scorpius refused to eat his spaghetti? A long fireside talk about where food comes from and which foods Scorpius might like better.

They talked about anything and everything, and if they didn’t agree, they would find some way to get on the same page. Brief tiffs, mild frustrations, they had many. Long-standing arguments? Never.

They’d been fighting over the locket for months now.

“As your lawyer,” Draco said, “I insist you give me the locket. I’ll put it in our Gringotts vault for safekeeping.”

“As your Healer,” Scorpius replied, “I insist I keep the locket and continue experimenting with the potion.”

They were at the Ministry, a rather dangerous place to be having this conversation, but no one seemed to be paying them any mind. They were sat on a bench in a busy hallway outside the Magical Testing and Licensure Department, where Albus was testing for his License to Apparate.

“As your father, I demand you give me the locket.”

“As your _adult_ son, I demand you fuck off.”

A lot had happened in the past year. Scorpius graduated from the Healing Academy and got a job at St Mungo’s as an Emergency Response Healer. Being young, he was given third shift, which he found he didn’t mind because it meant—well, he’d get to that in a minute.

“Be reasonable,” Draco said. “This thing nearly killed your best friend.”

“But it didn’t. Albus doesn’t even know I have it.”

Scorpius wished someone would grant Albus a Most Improved Human award for all the hard work he’d done to better himself. He aced his NEWTs, got a part-time job at the Ministry in the Archival and Recordskeeping Department, and, true to his word, spent the rest of his time writing a narrative history about the war. Scorpius strongly suspected this project had less to do with his interest in history and more an excuse to visit his family. It provided a structure with which he could reach out to them without admitting he wanted to spend time with them—out of shyness or guilt, Scorpius didn’t know.

“We all have a lot going on. There’s no harm in setting it down a while until things settle. The world isn’t in a rush for Er—” A man walked by at a quick clip and Draco went silent. They both watched as he passed. More quietly, he said, “We’re not in a hurry.”

“It’s been a year, Dad.”

Last winter, Albus had gone on a month-long vacation with his family to America. Scorpius, who decided to come home for the holidays and also because he didn’t want to leave his father alone again like he did in his first year, nearly went mad. His father acted like a lovesick teenager. He would lie around the Manor looking sad and lost. Whenever they’d go out, he’d say about a thousand times, “I wish Albus were here. He’d love this.” And when Scorpius would speak, sometimes Draco wouldn’t listen at all. He’d say things like, “Visited the third floor of the Manor today. Did you know Nagini shed several layers of skin up there?” or “Stuck a cucumber up my arse today,” and Draco would only sigh and push food around his plate, occasionally replying with, “I wonder what state Albus is in right now.”

“Plasma, I bet,” Scorpius would say, but Draco didn’t hear him.

When Albus had initially presented his Oedipal conundrum, Scorpius swore it would just be a sex thing and they’d get it out of their systems and move on. Sometimes people needed to indulge a bit, Scorpius told himself.

He had no idea they’d fall in love.

Though he’d sensed it while rooting through his father’s mind, it was also in the way Albus laughed at Draco’s jokes: far louder than the joke warranted, a little crinkle in his nose. The way Draco’s face lit up whenever it happened. The way Albus’ entire focus was on Draco whenever they were in the same room together. The defiant, flirtatious glances Albus offered; the faux-annoyed, menacing glares Draco gave in turn, which had such an obvious undercurrent of adoration Scorpius wondered why he bothered with the facade at all.

Surely it would fade, Scorpius had thought.

It did not.

“I try very hard not to pull the ‘when I was your age’ card,” Draco said.

“But you’re going to anyway.”

“When I was your age I wish someone had told me to value my friendships over my ambition.”

That one stung. “I’m not valuing my ambition over Albus. I’m trying to keep them balanced.”

“By allowing that locket to continue existing, you are prioritizing your drive for glory over your best friend’s safety and health.”

“Well that’s a bit dramatic.”

Being the heir to Malfoy Manor meant that, in order to inherit it, Scorpius had to live there. It was all semantics, of course. If he chose to move out, his father would be fine with that, but in truth, he didn’t want to live anywhere else. Tanzania had been fun but he was glad it was temporary, and getting a flat would be too expensive for his wages, so he’d need a roommate, and there was no one he would ever enjoy living with as much as his father and best friend. They had fun together. They played Quidditch on the weekends in the warm months. In the cold ones they had chess tournaments (Draco’s idea), Manor-wide hide-and-seek games (Albus’ idea), and drinking contests (Scorpius’ idea). Once, Draco walked in on Albus and Scorpius getting high, and instead of reprimanding them, decided to join in. Thereafter, he began supplying them because, he said, their stuff was shit and he had much better connections.

It took a while to get used to his father being so laid back. Draco began only working four days a week and gave himself Fridays through Sundays off. During the work week, he restricted himself to six hours a day instead of eight or ten or twelve. While Albus wrote his book, Draco began pro bono tutoring young wizards having difficulties with their primary educational requirements prior to being accepted into Hogwarts. He hung out with Ada several times a week, not to work but just for fun. She introduced him to her other friends and they became Draco’s friends, too. Scorpius had never known his father to even _have_ friends, let alone an entire (as he said proudly) “squad.” They invited him on skiing trips, ran a book club that met once a month, and went caroling on Christmas.

Before Scorpius returned to school last fall, Draco bought three mobile phones, gave one each to Albus and Scorpius, and kept one for himself. Scorpius had three entries in his contact list: Albus, Dad, and Hot Couple from the Pub (a Muggle woman had given her his number and invited him to a threesome with her boyfriend. Scorpius declined her invite, but kept her number in case he changed his mind). Albus only had two contacts, and Scorpius would never be able to wipe the knowledge from his brain that Draco was listed in his phone as _Daddy_.

Draco, however, had dozens of contacts, Muggles and technologically savvy wizards alike. The three of them kept a group chat going which Draco thoroughly abused, messaging them all day every day, emojis included, and sometimes texted from the opposite wing of the Manor rather than getting out of his chair.

And then there was also his father’s burgeoning addiction to the Internet. One day he’d popped a link into the group chat with the caption, _Figured out how to find pornography. You’ll both like this one._ The link led to a ten-minute group-sex video which, yes, Scorpius quite enjoyed, but Draco’s mysterious disappearance from his study and Albus’ ensuing silence in the chat said more about their reactions than Scorpius needed to know.

“It’s not dramatic, it’s the truth,” Draco was now saying, beginning to get angry. Emotional responses from his father were a new thing, too. Before all this, Draco had been calculated and measured in everything: the volume he laughed and spoke, the amount of coldness he expressed on his face at any given time, the stoic and professional facade he adopted in his interactions with everyone but Scorpius. This new and improved Draco cried when he was sad, laughed when he was happy, and, like right now, visibly tensed when he was angry.

“I don’t mean to sound judgemental,” he continued, “I know you were a child, you didn’t know any better, but now you do.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

New and improved Draco was also into some really kinky shit. Scorpius wished he could say he didn’t care and never wanted to know these things, but he would be lying to himself. He’d always been curious about what his father carried under his practiced composure, if he was really as weird as Scorpius was, which meant in a way it might be genetic, and that was a neat thing to consider. Scorpius had never been interested in the whole one-partner-at-a-time deal, and for a long time he thought maybe that made him some kind of freak. It turned out it did make him a freak, but not in a bad way, just a fun one, and it offered him a strange amount of solace to know his father was also prone to all the predilections that occupied the darkest parts of Scorpius’ mind.

To Draco and Albus’ credit, they kept Scorpius out of their business. It was completely his fault the night he barged into the study to ask where his father kept the Calming Draught and found Albus on his knees, naked and erect. A leather collar was wrapped around his throat, his head pillowed on Draco’s thigh whilst Draco appeared to be getting some work done.

The three of them stared at each other silently for a long moment, until Draco said, “Well this could have been worse.”

This was why he was grateful for third shift: during the day, he slept, which offered them quality time together. At night, he was out of the Manor so Albus and his father could have as much wild, kinky sex as they wanted on any surface they wanted (Scorpius had made his room off-limits early on, and based on the sheepish expressions he’d gotten as a result, assumed that something had already happened there). Scorpius would be kilometres away, none the wiser. Like Draco, he only worked four days a week, so he got to hang out with them on weekends, and overall it was a very good balance between the three of them.

Scorpius knew that he should be put off by his father being a Daddy Dom or whatever to his lifelong best friend. He knew it was weird, but he just wasn’t convinced it was wrong, especially when it made the two of them—two haunted, once-broken people—whole again. He’d always wanted Albus to join his family, but could never figure out how to make it happen. He felt this was where Albus belonged, where he could be cherished and treasured the way he wanted, not the way his family offered, which had always seemed to smother and overwhelm him despite their good intentions.

“I’m saying—” Draco let his head fall back against the wall. “I’m saying, while you thought you were always being a good friend to Albus, you were actually an enabler.”

Scorpius was struck silent—he, who always had a slew of words at the ready, totally blindsided.

“You’ve always been good, Scorpius. You always want to make the people you love happy. But sometimes, when you love someone who is made happy by things that can hurt them, you have to make the hard choice.”

“I’m not going to give Albus the locket. I’m not going to brew the same kind of Erised he did. I’ve been working on adapting the potion, distilling it into just a fraction of its former self. You know that feeling you get when you have an amazing dream, right before you’re fully awake where you think maybe it was real? That’s what I want this potion to do.”

“What will that do? Who will that help?”

“Depressed people. Suicidal people. Traumatized people. Combined with counseling, it has the potential to be really effective. How much better would your life have been if you had this potion earlier on? You’re living proof it can do amazing things other Draughts can’t as long as the addictive properties can be managed.”

Draco let out a long sigh, but before he could respond, Albus Apparated in front of them and said, “I passed!”

Scorpius nearly fell off the bench. Draco immediately stood and hugged him. Their easy physical affection was something Scorpius had quickly gotten used to.

“Congratulations," Draco said, and kissed his temple.

“How did you Apparate in the Ministry?” Scorpius asked.

“I still have the test charm on me. It’ll wear off in a few minutes. Be right back, I’m gonna go scare Dad.” Then he Disapparated.

Alone again, Draco gave Scorpius a long look. “I’m not asking you to destroy it. I just want you to put it away for a bit. I appreciate your ambition and your drive to help people, but Albus has made a lot of progress and I won’t see his efforts compromised.”

Scorpius stood and reached in his pocket, where he kept the locket at all times. He pulled it out and reluctantly handed it over. His father grasped it, their hands locked together. Before he let go, he said, “One year, then I’m taking it out of the vault.”

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Very few people are going to stumble onto this fic on their own, so it would mean a lot to me if you could shovel it in your friends' faces until they don't like you anymore. <3
> 
> I might be writing shorter fics/ficlets in this verse so you're welcome to subscribe to or bookmark the series!
> 
> If you enjoyed this fic, feel free to [reblog the photoset](https://bettydays.tumblr.com/post/169020732327/albus-potter-and-the-elixir-of-erised-after). I also procrastinated writing several chapters by making [an EoE playlist](https://bettydays.tumblr.com/post/169711441677/bettydays-playlist-for-albus-potter-the). And if you're curious, [here's who I pictured for each of the characters](https://bettydays.tumblr.com/post/169634694717/idk-if-youve-been-asked-this-before-but-do-you).
> 
> Find me elsewhere: [tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/betty_days) | [mailing list](https://tinyletter.com/bettydays)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [what did absolution look like](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14212233) by [fraxiinus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraxiinus/pseuds/fraxiinus)




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